Page 44 of Finders Keepers

I pace the tiny living room, my bare feet padding against the hardwood floors. The wedges I wore earlier sit discarded by the front door—they looked cute, but comfort won over style the moment I got back to our tiny house. My fingers drum against the cool glass of water in my hand as I try to quiet the buzzing thoughts in my head.

Sophie’s goodbye plays on repeat in my mind. The way her little arms wrapped around my neck, squeezing tight but it wasn’t the usual desperate grip she’s had since we left Oklahoma. There was a subtle shift, when she pulled back, her eyes weren’t filled with the panic I’ve grown used to seeing whenever we separate.

“Have fun with Ms. Lucy, baby girl.” I had kissed her forehead, breathing in the strawberry scent of her shampoo.

“We’re gonna make cookies.” Her whole face lit up. “And I’m gonna make sure we save you some, Mama.”

The statement brought both relief and an unexpected ache. It’s good that she’s adjusting, that she feels safe enough with Ms. Lucy to let go a little. But part of me, the part I’m not proud of, misses being her entire world, her only safe harbor.

I take another sip of water, trying to wash away the selfish thought. This is what healing looks like. For both of us.

A soft knock at the door shatters the quiet.

The glass slips from my fingers, hitting the rug with a muted thud. Water seeps into the beige fibers beneath my feet, but I barely notice. My entire body freezes, muscles locking into place as ice floods my veins.

That knock. Too gentle. Too careful. Matt always knocked like that right before—

No. No, he can’t be here. He doesn’t know where we are. We’re safe. We’re safe. We’re—

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I nearly jump out of my skin. With trembling fingers, I pull it out.

I’m at your front door

The breath I’ve been holding rushes out in a shaky exhale. Not Matt. Gavin. It’s Gavin.

My legs feel like jelly as I force them to move toward the door. Each step requires conscious effort, like I’m learning to walk all over again. The rational part of my brain knows it’s Gavin waiting on the other side, but my body hasn’t caught up to that knowledge yet.

I reach for the doorknob, my hand still shaking. The metal feels cool against my palm as I turn it, pulling the door open.

Gavin stands on the small porch, backlit by the setting sun. He’s traded his usual work attire for dark jeans and a fitted light green button-down that makes his amber eyes seem warmer than before. In his hands, he holds a stunning bouquet of wildflowers in every shade of purple imaginable, mixed with delicate white baby’s breath.

“Hi.” His smile falters slightly as he takes in my face. “Everything okay?”

I realize I must look as rattled as I feel. “Yeah, yes. I’m fine. You just… startled me a little.” I manage a smile, hoping it looks more genuine than it feels. “Those are beautiful.”

“They’re for you.” He extends the bouquet. “I hope you like the color purple.

“It’s actually my favorite color.”

My fingers brush against his as I take the flowers. The simple touch sends an unexpected electric pulse through me. It’s been so long since I’ve felt anything like this, this gentle buzz of connection that doesn’t hurt. My breath catches, and for a fleeting moment, I almost pull away out of instinct.

But I don’t.

I let myself feel it. The warmth of his skin. I let it ground me.

“Thank you,” I manage, cradling the bouquet close to my chest.

I remind myself, I’m safe here. This man isn’t Matt. This touch isn’t a prelude to pain.

“I should put these in water,” I say, stepping back to invite him in. My bare feet leave damp prints on the hardwood from the spilled water. “Sorry about the mess. I split my glass of water.” I’m torn between wanting to clean up the spill or not making him wait on me more than needed. The rug and my feet will dry, so I walk, carefully picking up the empty glass on my way to the kitchen, the flowers cradled in my other arm.

He follows me inside, keeping a respectful distance that I both appreciate and find myself wishing was a little less. “No worries. I’ve been known to cause disasters just by showing up.”

His joke lands softly between us, and I find myself smiling as I set my glass in the sink. I grab a mason jar from a cabinet and fill it with water for the flowers.

“These are gorgeous,” I say, arranging the purple blooms. “Where did you find wildflowers like this?”

“There’s a field behind my clinic.” He leans against the counter, careful not to crowd me.

---