Page 16 of Coming Home

Can't stand on your own two feet.

I knew the psychological mechanics of it; my therapist had practically drawn me a map of how he dismantled my autonomy just to play the savior. But knowing a bullet is lead doesn't make it hurt any less when it hits you.

I reached for the deadbolt, my hand trembling so violently I couldn't get a grip on the metal.

Then a large, warm palm closed over mine, pinning my fingers to the lock.

I spun around so fast my suitcase tipped over, clattering loudly against the baseboard.

Ralph was standing right there, close enough that the heat radiating off him hit my cold face. He was shirtless, low-slung gray sweatpants hanging on his hips, his hair a wild, dark tangle from sleep. And he was wearing glasses. I'd never seen him in glasses before.

They made him look strangely accessible—less like an untouchable Olympic athlete and more like a human being who had just crawled out of bed.

For one detached, stupid second, my brain ignored the panic attack and fixated on those frames.

Since when did Ralph wear glasses?

They were annoyingly handsome on him, softening a jawline I had no business noticing at six in the morning.

His eyes tracked from my pale face down to the fallen suitcase, then to the phone still vibrating against my palm. He didn't ask a single question. He just reached out with a slow movement, took the phone right out of my hand as if it were a fragile piece of glass, and walked it over to the kitchen island, setting it face-down on the stone.

"Hey!" I scrambled after him, my voice cracking. "Give that back."

"No," he said, leaning against the edge of the counter, his broad chest rising and falling with a slow, steady rhythm.

"Ralph, I'm leaving. Let me go."

"Where?"

"I have options. I'm not... I'm not a vagrant. I can find a motel."

"I didn't call you a vagrant, Emma."

"Then stop looking at me like that!" My voice was rising, escaping my control. I was small, messy, and exposed under the bright kitchen glass. "I am not doing this. I'm not going to be your good deed for the month. I won't be managed, Ralph."

He didn't flinch. He just held my gaze through those unfamiliar lenses until I wanted to hide behind my own hair.

"Nobody is managing you," he said softly.

"Then let me walk out that door."

"What did the text say?"

"Nothing."

"Emma."

"It doesn't matter!" I yelled, the tears finally breaking through. "It doesn't matter what he says!"

"Then why are your hands doing that?"

I looked down. My fingers were shaking so hard they looked like strings being plucked. I balled them into fists, pressing them against my thighs to force them still.

Ralph studied me. There was no pity on his face—not the kind I'd grown to despise over the last three years. He wasn't looking at a broken thing he needed to fix for his own ego; he was just looking at me.

"You're not running back to a man who locks you out in a storm," he said, "And you're sure as hell not running away from me just because he taught you to believe that every kindness is a trap."

I didn't have an answer for that.