Page 70 of Break Me

You wouldn’t see the cabin if you weren’t looking for it. It sits deep in the trees, shielded on all sides. Glowing through the branches, I spot the porch light. I know I didn’t leave it that way. She turned it on for me.

Not because she was afraid, but because she knew I’d come back.

My gaze drifts to the edges of the clearing. Raven’s car is parked off to the side.

The sight of it hits harder than I expect. It’s proof that she’s here. That this place, the one I bought thinking about a someday I wasn’t sure I deserved, isn’t just mine anymore. It was never meant to be. I didn’t buy it for solitude. I bought it because I needed somewhere that could hold more than one life.

I don’t know what’s going to happen once I walk through that door. I don’t know what she’ll say, or if tonight has changed us too much to ever go back. But I know this, as surely as I know the sound of my own engine. If there’s a future waiting for me, it’s behind that door, with her.

Mouse steps out onto the porch as I step out of my truck. He looks as wrecked as I feel, eyes rimmed red, jaw tight.

“Where is she?”

“She’s down by the creek,” he says.

“Thank you.”

He hesitates. “Knox?”

“He’s alive,” I say. “That’s all that matters right now.”

Mouse studies my face, before continuing. “You want me to⁠—”

“Go,” I tell him gently. “I’ve got her.”

He leaves without another word.

I don’t go inside. I go to where she is.

The sound reaches me before I see her. The water moves behind the cottage, steady and constant, threading through the rocks.

Raven’s by the water. She’s wading near the bank, barefoot. The hem of her jeans is darkened where the water reaches her. Her hair hangs loose, catching the morning light. Her arms are wrapped tight as she watches the water intently. Like she’s waiting for an answer only the current can give.

The sight of her makes my chest ache. She's not lost. Not broken. She's exactly who she's always been—strong enough to carry more than she ever should have to.

I don’t move. Some moments aren’t meant to be interrupted.

This is it, a voice says quietly inside me. This is the rest of your life.

My boots leave the gravel for the muddy bank. Cold water closes over the leather, soaking through almost immediately, but I keep moving.

Raven hears me and turns. Relief crosses her face so fast it nearly brings me to my knees. I stop in front of her, the world stripped down to nothing more than breath and heartbeat.

Everything before this falls away.

Everything after can wait.

“You’re hurt,” she says immediately, hands coming up to my ribs, my jaw, my shoulder.

“I’m okay,” I say.

Her forehead presses into my chest, right over my heart, and she exhales like she’s been holding her breath since Mouse put her in the car.

I wrap my arms around her, and for the first time all night, I let myself rest.

“I was so scared,” she whispers.

“I know.”