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I squirm, instinct flaring, but he just holds me tighter—anchoring me in place with arms that feel like they were made to catch me. Citrus and cedar rise up, hitting me in the chest, and suddenly I can’t breathe for an entirely different reason.

“No, wildflower,” he murmurs in my ear, “I don’t get it. But I know you keep thinking you’re empty…and I keep seeing you full.”

God, I want to hate how good it feels—the warmth, the weight of him. The way that bottomless pit inside me starts to fill just from the press of his chest against mine. I don’t want to need that. Don’t want to believe him.

But some part of me—the soft, stupid part—shouts, “Home. We’re finally home”

I tell her to shut the hell up. She is about as trustworthy as a hooker running a Black Friday sale.

I count to five. Then I pull back, ignoring how it makes my chest ache, and toss the dish towel in his face.

“The rest are yours, Sheriff.”

I spin on my heel before he can see the truth behind my eyes—before I give him a reason to stay. I have a boy to check on. One who just cracked the foundation beneath my feet, and I’ll be damned if I let the man with sad eyes and a hero’s heart finish the job.

Chapter Fourteen

SWEET DREAMS ARE MADE OF THESE

LOUISIANA

I’ve spent so damn much time within these walls, and honestly, they feel more like home than mine ever did. Every inch of this place holds something—a memory, a laugh, a fight that turned into forgiveness. All the love built into the bones of it makes even the bad times feel less sharp.

I pause outside what used to be Maddox and Mercy’s room, the door cracked just enough.

And there he is.

Clean, he almost looks like a different kid. That long, blonde hair has a golden sheen now, catching the soft light like it finally remembered how to shine. A tiny beauty mark rests beneath one pale blue eye—lashes so long they nearly brush his cheekbones when he blinks.

His green pajamas are buttoned up crooked, sleeves a little too short, like they belonged to someone else first. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, cross-legged, barefoot, clutching a photo in both hands like it might fall apart if he lets go.

“I know it’s been a while,” he says softly—to the picture, to a ghost, to the universe. His voice trembles, high and hoarse in that way only grief can make it. “I just wanted you to know I’m okay…”

My hand curls around the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. Because something in his voice—small and raw and older than any child should sound—has lodged itself beneath my ribs.

“Tonight I had real food,” he whispers. “And even a bath.”

There’s a long pause. A little shrug of his shoulders—like he’s trying to make himself smaller.

“I promise not to get too comfortable,” he adds after a while. His fingers tighten around the photograph. “They’ll get rid of me. They always do.”

Fuck.

That shatters something inside me—because I know exactly how that feels. How it is to carry a quiet emptiness, to believe you’re less than enough, broken in a way no one wants to fix. To be afraid you’re not the kind of home someone can stay in.

I push the door open, trying not to show how hard it is to do something as simple as walk into a room like this. The air’s still warm from the shower, thick with soap and something else I can’t name. Not comfort exactly. Not yet. But close enough to pretend.

He moves fast, shoving the photo under his thigh like I’ve caught him sneaking cookies instead of just…missing someone. His eyes lock on mine, hard and daring.

“Is this the part where you tuck me in so I can go nite-nite?” he mutters, chin jutting out, all teeth and pride.

“Pretty much,” I say, not rising to the bait.

He stares at me for a beat, like he’s trying to figure out what my angle is, then lets out a dramatic sigh and rolls his eyes. With a sharp tug, he jerks the covers back and slides under them. I catch the flicker of movement as he slips the photo beneath his pillow, like a secret he’s not ready to let go of.

I don’t ask. Don’t press.

I sit on the edge of the bed and smooth the blanket out over his legs, careful not to make it a moment. Just something quiet and steady. Something he can expect.