Page 73 of Obeying

He presses his forehead to mine. "I know. I'm right here."

And I let go. My whole body tightens around him, and he follows right after. I hear my name on his lips, rough, unsteady, and I feel him shudder against me. His grip on my hand tightens. His breathing stops for a second. Then he exhales, long and slow, his face buried in my neck.

We stay like that for a while. His weight on me, his breath warm on my skin. Neither of us moving, neither of us wanting to.

Then he pulls me into him. My head finds his chest and his arm wraps around me. The city glows through the window. His fingers trace slow circles on my shoulder. I can hear his heartbeat under my ear, slowing down. I match my breathing to it.

The quiet of the room feels heavy, but it is a good kind of weight. The best kind.

"You know," I say, tracing the faint outline of the scar on his chest, "I don't think we can ignore or deny what we have anymore."

Logan shifts, his hand sliding up to cup the back of my head. His thumb traces my hairline. "I haven't been trying to deny it. I've been trying to respect it."

I nod, pressing my face deeper into the warmth of his chest. "I know. And I want that, too. I just…I want to finish this hearing first. I don't want any baggage, any complications, before I enter a new relationship with you."

His arm tightens around me, pulling me flush against his side. The pressure is firm, a silent promise of support. "I understand," he says, his voice rough.

"Three days," I say.

"Are you nervous?"

"No." I smile against his skin, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath me. "I think I'm going to enjoy it."

"That's my girl."

I press my face into him so he can't see my expression. It's giving away everything right now, and the vulnerability scares me. His arm tightens again, a silent confirmation that he isn't going anywhere. Neither of us says anything else. There's no need for more words.

I close my eyes and wish this moment could last just a little longer.

22

KRISTEN

It's the evening before the hearing, and I can't sit still.

I've been pacing my living room for an hour. Kitchen to window. Window to couch. Couch to kitchen. My statement plays on a loop in my head, every word, every pause, every place where I need to breathe so my voice doesn't shake.

The case files are stacked on the kitchen table in three neat piles. Carmen's printed statement is in a folder on top, her signature on the last page. My notes are organized and color-coded, the way Logan showed me. Blue for timeline. Yellow for financial documentation. Red for the allegations and our point-by-point rebuttal. Everything is as prepared as it's going to get.

But my body doesn't know that. Part of me is fired up. Ready. I've been waiting for this moment since Logan and I built our defense. The chance to finally stand in front of people and tell the truth. To fight back instead of running.

But the other part of me, the part that spent years with Miguel, knows better than to feel safe. Because that's what he does. He always has something. Some angle you don't see coming, some detail he twists until it sounds completely reasonable, even when it's insane. You walk in thinking you're prepared, and he says one thing, just one thing, and suddenly you're doubting yourself. You're standing there wondering if maybe he's right. If maybe you are the problem. That is his gift.

So yeah, I'm ready. And I'm terrified. Both at the same time.

I try sitting down. That lasts about forty seconds. I try making tea. I boil the water, pour it, then forget about it until it goes cold. I try reading. I read the same paragraph three times without absorbing a word. I try watching something on my laptop. I close it after two minutes because I can't focus on anything that isn't happening tomorrow in Conference Room B at ten o'clock in the morning.

Eventually, I just pace.

My phone is on the table. I think about calling Logan, but he's at work. He mentioned he had surgeries today.

I need someone to talk to. Someone who'll understand. Someone who knows how to make me feel better. So I grab my jacket and my keys. I know where I need to go.

The sun is starting to dip, throwing everything in warm gold. The sky is clear, the air is cool, and the streets are quiet. I walk for about twenty minutes, past the main road, past the park, down the narrow lane lined with old oaks. The grass here is greener than the rest of the neighborhood. It rained last week.

I turn through the gate. Walk the path I know by heart. Third row. Fourth stone from the left.

I set the sunflowers against the base and sit down on the grass.