Page 6 of Falling for My Shifter Guardian

He nods, but the tension in his shoulders doesn’t ease.

“Well, I’m about done for the day,” I admit with a sigh. I sling my camera bag over one shoulder.

“Let me drive you home,” Derek says.

I hesitate, caught off-guard by the sudden offer. “It’s not far. I can walk.”

“It’s getting late,” he replies, his tone steady, firm. “Humor me.”

There’s no arguing with Derek when he uses that voice. I roll my eyes, but a small smile sneaks across my lips. “Fine. But only because I’m carrying expensive equipment. Not because I think I need a bodyguard.”

I expect him to respond with one of his deadpan quips, but he just gives me that same unreadable look he always does—half intense, half inscrutable—and starts walking toward his truck.

The man is infuriatingly impossible to read.

His truck is parked at the edge of the lot, a sturdy, no-nonsense vehicle that suits him perfectly. As I climb into the passenger seat, the faint smell of cedar and leather surrounds me, and for some inexplicable reason, it feels… safe. Too safe. Like the kind of safe that makes my pulse quicken in all the wrong—or maybe all the right—ways.

Derek settles into the driver’s seat, his broad shoulders making the cab feel smaller than it really is. The low rumble of the engine fills the silence as he pulls onto the road, his hands gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment.

“You don’t have to keep looking out for me, you know,” I say, breaking the silence. My voice sounds braver than I feel. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

His jaw tightens, the muscle there twitching slightly. “I made a promise.”

“To my dad,” I murmur, barely loud enough to hear over the hum of the engine. “You’ve mentioned that before.”

He doesn’t respond, and the silence between us grows heavier, thicker, like it’s pressing against my chest. There’s something about Derek that always feels so weighty, like he’s carrying a world of things he’ll never say.

Before I can push him further, we reach my apartment complex. He pulls into a parking space, cuts the engine, and sits back in his seat, but he doesn’t move to leave.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say, hand on the door handle.

“You’re welcome,” he replies, his voice low, almost hesitant.

I glance back at him, my grip on the handle loosening. “Do you want to come in? For coffee or something?”

His brows lift slightly, like the idea hadn’t even crossed his mind. For a second, I think he’s going to decline—like always—but then he surprises me.

“Sure,” he says, voice gruff. “Coffee sounds good.”

I blink, momentarily thrown off. Derek Mercer, the king of keeping his distance, just said yes? I nod quickly, not wanting to give him time to change his mind, and lead the way to my apartment.

Inside, the dim lighting makes the space feel warmer, cozier. I set my bag down by the couch, gesturing vaguely toward the living room. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll get the coffee started.”

But of course, Derek doesn’t sit. He lingers near the kitchen table, his sharp, watchful eyes scanning the room like he’sassessing it for threats. I shake my head, half-amused, and step into the kitchen.

As I pull out two mismatched mugs, one of them wobbles, teetering dangerously on the edge of the counter. I lunge to catch it, but it slips through my fingers and shatters on the floor.

“Damn it,” I mutter, crouching to pick up the larger pieces.

“Olivia, wait—” Derek’s voice is sharp, but I’ve already reached for one of the shards. A sharp sting slices through my palm, and I hiss, pulling my hand back to see blood welling up along the cut.

In an instant, Derek is beside me, his movements swift and controlled. “Don’t move,” he orders, his voice firm but not unkind. He grabs a dishcloth from the counter and presses it gently against my hand. “Where’s your first aid kit?”

“In the bathroom cabinet,” I mumble, wincing as he applies pressure to the cut.

He disappears for a moment, returning with the kit he insisted I keep after I sliced my finger a few months ago. Kneeling in front of me, he opens it with practiced ease, his big hands working with surprising gentleness as he cleans the wound.

“You’re always prepared, huh?” I joke weakly, trying to lighten the mood.

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