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“He’s right,” she says, coming over to cup my face. “My girl stood her ground. Didn’t wait for someone else to save her.” She kisses my forehead. “That’s my girl.”
My throat tightens, a swell of heat pressing behind my eyes at the weight of their pride. Matthew gives me a single, approving nod. Morgan squeezes my hand, her laughter faded but her eyes bright with understanding.
Carter stands close, his warmth steady beside me. When I look up at him, his expression holds that earlier reverence, deeper now, more sure.
“Restaurant,” Dad announces, snapping us back to reality. “Now. Before I go find this guy and finish what my daughter started.”
“Dad,” I warn, but there’s no heat in it.
“Kidding,” he says, though his look says he might be serious. “Mostly.”
Mom hops back on the bike, wrapping her arms around him. “Let’s celebrate,” she calls out. “And, Trixie? You’re buying the first round.”
As everyone moves to their cars and bikes, Carter’s hand brushes mine, brief and deliberate. I freeze, the way you do when you don’t want to break something.
“You were incredible,” he murmurs, low enough for only me to hear. “Not just in the fight. The way you handled her, stayed calm.”
“I had a good teacher,” I reply, meeting his eyes.
Something changes in his face, a raw vulnerability that stills my own breath. “You didn’t need me.” He pauses, and his voice loses some of its shape. “You never did.”
His words lift a weight I didn’t realize I was carrying. I see myself in that exam room, fighting, standing strong, refusing to be a victim again. I didn’t need saving. I just needed to remember my own strength.
“I know,” I say simply. “But I’m glad you’re here anyway.”
He takes my hand, fingers weaving through mine, feeling both new and inevitable. “Me too.”
Chapter 8
Trixie
Laughter rings out around our table, blending into the chaos of my family’s love. My father lifts his shot glass. “To my daughter’s quick reflexes.”
My mother taps hers against his. “And to women who make the most of what they’ve got.”
Across the table, Matthew notices Carter’s hand brushing mine under the table, but for once, he keeps quiet.
As we spill into the parking lot, the moon hangs full and bright, casting silver light over the asphalt. My cheeks ache from smiling, and for the first time in ages, the knot in my shoulders has finally loosened. It feels almost like peace.
“Someone needs to drive you home,” Matthew says, already fishing out his keys.
“I’ll do it,” Carter says softly, his hand landing gently at the small of my back, a touch so unexpected that I forget, for a moment, what I was about to say.
Matthew glances between us, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He weighs the moment, deciding if he should step in. Whatever he reads in Carter’s eyes must reassure him because he gives a sharp nod.
“Text me when you’re home,” he tells me, then turns to Carter. “And you. If she gets hurt again with you, it won’t just be strangers we’re dealing with.”
“I know,” Carter replies, his voice carrying a weight that makes Matthew pause, a promise that needs no extra words.
My parents say their farewells with hugs that linger, my mother whispering some advice that makes my face warm. Morgan shoots me a knowing look before climbing into Matthew’s truck. Trenton nods gruffly and heads to his bike.
And then it’s just Carter and me, standing under the glow of the restaurant’s neon sign, the night air cool on my skin.
“You don’t have to drive me,” I say, though the words feel more like a token protest.
“I know.” He doesn’t move toward his bike. Instead, he studies my face under the neon light with a focused intensity. “But I want to.”
The honesty is stark and simple. It catches my breath. I nod, not trusting my voice, and follow him to his bike.
