Page 59 of Catcher

That lands harder than I want it to because I’ve already put her through enough. “I won’t.”

She studies me, deciding whether to believe it. “Don’t make me have to kick your balls into your throat. Got it?”

I feel my lip twitch. If there’s ever a woman who thinks her balls are bigger than a man’s, it’s London, and I respect that about her. She’s loyal as fuck, and Ruby deserves a friend like that.

I turn toward the house before she can say more.

“Stay with them. I’m gonna walk the property,” I tell Everest.

He nods and positions himself near the porch while I walk the perimeter, finding nothing disturbed. When I come back around, I hold out my hand and wait for Ruby to hand over the house key.

I step in first. Inside smells like a home. Like clean laundry and the faint sweetness of flowers with a hint of vanilla.

I move through the house as I would any place I need to protect, except every detail hits harder because it belongs to Ruby. There are photographs on shelves, a throw blanket over the couch, and books stacked unevenly on a small table.

Life.

Hers.

I come back to the living room, where Ruby stands with London and Everest. “All good,” I tell Everest, and he nods.

London hugs Ruby, tight and long. Then she turns to me, gives me one last look that says she’ll gut me herself if I screw this up, and walks out with Everest.

I lock the door behind them. Turn the deadbolt. Check it once. Then again. The click sounds too small for how hard my pulse is still beating. When I turn around, Ruby is in the middle of the room, arms crossed tightly, shoulders drawn in like she’s holding herself together by force. She looks tired and pissed off. Something in my chest pulls hard at the sight. She looks too breakable and proud all at once, and that combination is a goddamn hazard to a man like me.

I slowly cross the room, more careful than I’ve ever been in a fight, and stop close enough for the space between us to turn hot and difficult. The house is quiet, except for the sound of both of us breathing. Her chin tips up, refusing to give an inch, but I see the strain under it, the fine tension around her mouth, the way her fingers bite into her own arms. She doesn’t want me here.

“I’m going to change,” she says, voice quieter now, roughened at the edges. Her eyes hold mine when she adds, “I can still smell him.”

Her words hit like a match to gasoline. For one brutal second, all I can think about is dragging that bastard back out of the hospital and finishing what I started. My hands flex at my sides, knuckles tight, old violence waking up in me as if it never went to sleep. But she’s standing right here, and this isn’t about what I want to break. It’s about what she needs. I force the rage down and make myself stay still. Barely.

“Go,” I say, my voice low enough to scrape. “I’ll be right here.”

She heads toward the hall, then pauses with her hand on the doorway. “If you’re hungry, there’s leftover jambalaya in the fridge. My mom made it.” She continues, then pauses again. “And Catcher?” My name in her voice does something I don’t let show.

“Yeah.”

“Thank you,” she says softly. “For… being here tonight.”

I’m not expecting her to say those words when they land heavily in my chest. I want to tell her no one touches her again. Not while I’m breathing. Instead, I nod. Words are dangerous, and mine have already hurt her more than once.

She watches me for a second, then disappears down the hall.

I’m not hungry. Instead, I pace the living room, taking in the pictures on her shelves of Ruby with an older woman who has her eyes and her mouth, a younger man with a reckless grin and his arm slung around Ruby’s shoulders. I stare at that one the longest. Then I move to the window and pull the curtains back just enough to look out at the dark street and porch lights glowing. Nothing is moving that shouldn’t be.

I stay there, eyes sharp and watching. I hear water running somewhere down the hall and soft footsteps.

Several minutes later, when Ruby comes back into the room, I turn. Ruby stands at the edge of the room in a tank top and pajama shorts, hair piled loose on top of her head, face washed clean, no makeup, no armor. She’s holding a pillow and a folded blanket against her chest. She looks younger this way.

My eyes drag over her before I can stop them, and I hate myself a little for it, because she’s had a shit night, and I’m standing here noticing bare legs and other curves of her body like some starving bastard.

She crosses to the couch and sets the blanket down. “You can sleep here,” she says. “Or sit in the dark and brood all night.”

I blink, and a rough breath leaves me.

The awkwardness settles back in after that. Heavy and full of everything we’re not saying. That morning, the grocery store, tonight. The way I keep showing up even after telling myself I won’t.

“I’m going to bed,” she says.