Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Something in my tone must convince her, because she doesn’t press. She just nods and shifts her weight, suddenly unsure of what comes next.
The space between us is charged now. Not frantic. Not rushed.
Waiting. “You didn’t have to step in back there,” she says quietly.
“Yes,” I reply. “I did.”
She studies my face like she’s trying to read the fine print. “You don’t even know me.”
I shrug. “Doesn’t matter what I do or don’t know in details. I know enough.”
The porch light casts soft shadows across her features. She looks tired. Strong. A woman who carries more than she should without complaint.
“You want to come in?” she asks.
The words are simple. The invitation is not. I hold her gaze for a long second. Long enough to feel the pull. Long enough to imagine what it would be like to follow her inside, to let the night take a different shape.
Then I shake my head. “No.”
Surprise flickers across her face. Not hurt, just unexpected.
“Why not?” she asks.
“Because you’ve had a long night,” I state. “Because that man might double back to see if you were lying, I will be leaving my mark.”
Her jaw tightens. “You think he would?”
“I think men like that don’t like being embarrassed,” I reply. “Especially in front of witnesses.”
She exhales slowly. “So what you’re my security detail now?”
“For tonight,” I say.
I swing off the bike and push it closer to the side of the house, still within street sight, but in a personal position. I set the kickstand down and pocket the keys.
“I’m leaving it here,” I tell her.
Her brows knit together. “You’re not staying.”
“I’ll be nearby,” I share. “And if he comes back and sees the bike, it’ll reinforce your story.”
Understanding dawns in her eyes. “That’s… thoughtful,” she replies carefully.
“Practical,” I correct.
She smiles but it doesn’t fill her face. We stand there for a moment longer, neither of us quite ready to end it. The night hums around us—crickets, distant traffic, the quiet sounds of a house settling into sleep.
“Will I see you again?” she asks.
I meet her gaze, feel something steady lock into place in my chest. “If you want to.”
She nods. “I do.”
I step back before the answer can cost us both something we’re not ready to pay. “Get some rest.”
She watches me walk down the driveway, eyes following until I disappear into the dark. I don’t look back.
Not because I don’t want to.
Because I want to too much.
The road waits for me, patient as ever. And for tonight, that’s where I belong.
I don’t leave right away. I walk the block twice, counting steps, memorizing angles, watching reflections in dark windows. The night feels ordinary again—too ordinary for what almost happened in that parking lot. I don’t like ordinary after tension. It hides things.
Her street is quiet. No cars slow down. No doors open. The porch light stays on.
Good.
I cut through the side yard and make the call I should’ve made earlier. Smoke answers on the second ring, voice rough with sleep.
“I need a favor,” I tell him.
He exhales. “You always do.”
“Hospital parking lot. Silver sedan. Keys in the gas tank cubby.”
A pause. Then a low whistle. “You pulling guardian angel duty now?”
“Just move the car,” I state. “Park it where it belongs.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah,” I add. “Be invisible.”
Smoke snorts. “My specialty.”
I hang up and wait. Twenty minutes later, headlights sweep once across the street and disappear. The sound of an engine fades. I don’t move until the night settles back into itself.
Only then do I circle the house. That’s when I make a decision on impulse.
The locks are basic. Residential. No alarm system that I can hear or see. Windows old, frames warped just enough to give me what I need without breaking anything. I choose the back, near the laundry room, where the shadows collect.
I’m inside in under thirty seconds.
The house smells like soap and something warm—coffee maybe, or the ghost of dinner. It feels lived-in in a way the clubhouse never does. Softer. Human.
I move quietly, every step measured.
The living room comes first. Hospital bed by the window, exactly like before. A television playing some western in black and white, volume low. Her grandfather sleeps lightly, breath shallow but even. I pause there longer than I mean to, listening.
Alive. Safe.
Good.
I move on.
The hallway is narrow. Family photos on the wall—her younger, smiling with a woman who looks like her, then older pictures with the man in the bed before illness hollowed him out. A life distilled into frames.
Her bedroom door is half closed. I shouldn’t go in.
I do anyway.
She’s sprawled diagonally across the bed, covers kicked down, one arm flung out like she fell asleep mid-thought. Hair loose around her face. The tension I saw earlier is gone, replaced by something softer, younger.
Vulnerable.
I stop just inside the doorway.
Watching someone sleep is an intimacy you don’t earn. It’s something you’re either invited into, or you steal like I am right now.