Page 70 of What Remains of Grace

He lifted both palms, slow, as though approaching a frightened animal.

“As far as I know, Emmie is fine,” he said. “Nothing happened. Nothing’s wrong. I didn’t mean to wake you, Jenna.” He ran a hand over his jaw, exhausted. “I just needed to see you.”

Jenna’s pulse jumped. “What?”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

She stepped onto the porch, pulling the door shut behind her. She blinked against the porch light, trying to make sense of Cole standing there. She got a look at him, all of him, for the very first time. He wasn’t dressed for company. Grey sweatpants hung low on his hips, loose but not loose enough, the soft fabric clinging in a way that made it very clear Cole Bennett was . . . proportional everywhere.

He shifted his weight, and her eyes tracked the movement before she could stop herself. His T-shirt, a thin heathered jersey, was damp at the collar and under the arms, darkened with the kind of sweat that came from tossing and turning, or from pacing on a porch for too long, working up the courage to knock.

She told herself the heat had done it.

But Florida humidity had nothing on nerves, and his whole posture was wound tight with them.

Her pulse kicked, sharp and unexpected. She’d never seen him like this.

Not composed. Not careful.

Not the man who paced his breathing to hers on bike rides or kept a steady hand on the stern of her paddleboard.

He looked undone.

And the sight of him, rumpled, restless, and those sweatpants slung low, did something to her she was not prepared to name.

She opened her mouth to speak, to ask him why he was here or if he was okay, but the words caught somewhere in her throat, unable to escape. He seemed to see that, whatever flickered across her face, and it made something like panic flash through his own.

He shook his head, stepped back, breath uneven. “Go back to bed, Jenna.” The words punched straight through her.

Go back to bed, Jenna.

Just like the night of the tarp. Just like standing on this same porch watching him walk away. Cold. Distant. Leaving without giving her anything to hold onto.

She looked down, and his hands caught her attention.

They weren’t steady. Not even close. His fingers trembled where they hovered near his sides.

Cole didn’t shake. Cole didn’t rattle. Cole was an anchor for her, for everyone, for everything around him.

Whatever this was. Whatever had driven him here at two in the morning. She couldn’t let him leave.

“No,” she said before she could stop herself.

“I’m sorry,” he said, turning to leave.

She reached out, hand closing around his forearm. Warm, solid, familiar. He stopped instantly, as if the touch froze him in place. He looked at her, and the storm in his eyes was louder than the one she’d dreamed about weeks ago.

“Cole,” she whispered, “don’t leave like that. Not again.”

His breath hitched.

And then somehow—she wasn’t sure who moved first, but the space between them closed. Her hand slid up his arm and around the back of his neck.

His fingers brushed her waist.

And their mouths met.

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t shy. It was months of almosts and nearlys and not-yets crashing into each other. Cole’s hands came up to cradle her face, and she rose onto her toes, the world tilting under her as his lips claimed hers, slow at first, then urgent, then overwhelming.