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“Yeah,” he said. “I figured that out.”

“How long do you think she’ll walk?”

His lips twitched. “She’s probably just sitting in her car.”

Hudson stayed near the counter. He didn’t move toward me, which somehow made the distance more noticeable.

“We should check the temperature,” I said.

The temperature was correct. Naturally.

I folded the dish towel, unfolded it, then folded it again.

Hudson’s eyes tracked my every move. “You’re nervous.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re strangling the towel.”

I looked down. I was strangling the towel. I released it. “I’m not nervous.”

“Okay.”

“You can ask.”

“Ask what?”

“Whatever you’re trying not to ask.”

His gaze held mine. “Why did you pull away the other night?”

The question had been hanging between us since the clearing. I knew that. Knowing didn’t make answering easier.

“I got scared.”

“Of me?”

“No.”

He remained quiet, giving me the same space he had given me then.

I looked at the oven rather than him.

“You’d just told me about your father,” I said. “You trusted me with something important, and I shared with you about my parents. Then we were about to kiss, and it felt too real.”

“Real is bad?” he asked.

“Real is… difficult.”

He took a step closer, though he still left several feet between us. “What were you afraid would happen?”

Everything.

He would learn the truth.

The pack would learn the truth.

I would lose Grandma Ruth’s messages, Caldwell’s drawings, Patty’s friendship, Julie’s hugs, and every late-night conversation that had turned my apartment from a place I endured into somewhere I occasionally wanted to return to.