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Gabe steps closer. But not so close that he takes away my space.
“You’re safe,” he says. “Don’t let them scare you.”
“What about you?”
“Oh. I’m intrigued.”
I study him. The steadiness. The determination. He hasn’t tried to stop me. He’s only supported me. And god I’m grateful for that.
“I’m not afraid,” I say quietly.
“A little fear is healthy.” There’s a half-smile, a hint of humor.
But that fracture cracks further, because it’s all too heavy.
“I found her too late,” I whisper. “And now they’re interested in you.”
“Curious. Probably wondering what resources you’ve conjured.”
“They may come after you. I don’t want to put you at risk. I can’t… If something happened to you because of me…” I mean every word, deep in my bones, but it’s the glassy eyes and swell of tears that I don’t anticipate.
Without thinking, I’m moving, stepping into him.
His arms come around me immediately, holding me close enough that I can feel the heat of him through layers of winter fabric. Solid breadth. A place to stop.
He holds me like we’ve done this before, like it’s as natural as donning a coat or slipping into sleep.
I breathe him in.
He smells like cedar and coffee, and beneath both, something that just smells like him.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, his voice a gravelly rumble that dislodges the guilt. “We do this together.”
I tilt my chin up.
He doesn’t move.
He waits.
My breath catches halfway in, like even my body isn’t sure this is a good idea.
But I rise on my toes without plans or calculations.
Just—closer.
Close enough that I can see the faint scar at his temple. The one I remember from years ago, when he and my brother came home from a pick-up game bloodied and laughing.
I was twelve. He was untouchable.
He’s still untouchable.
Except he’s not moving away.
His hand comes up—slowly—and brushes a damp strand of hair away from my face. His thumb grazes my cheekbone.
I stop breathing.
“Evie,” he says, and like so often when he says my name, it feels heavy, as if it’s loaded with a message. A warning? A question?
