Page 66 of Crossing Lines

A massive amount of food fills the table, and then there’s Evren. Evren who’s pacing the room, hair disheveled as if he’s been running his hands through it constantly. He has a phone glued to his ear, and he snaps, “She’s thirty minutes late. Something must’ve?—”

The door clicking shut causes him to spin around.

“She’s here,” he says into the phone. “Update you soon.” He tosses his phone onto the table and he’s in front of me the next instant, running his hands over my arms, my shoulders, as if he’s terrified that I'll disappear.

“What happened?” His gaze is frantic, searching every inch of me like he's expecting to find something broken. “Where have you been? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, but I’msosorry I’m late. My car died, and I forgot my phone at home.”

“I was terrified someone kidnapped you. I was about to send Nate’s team out to look for you.”

The weight of his words hits me like a punch—he’s right. Itcouldhave happened. What the hell was I thinking? My knees buckle beneath me, and before I can even process it, his arms tighten around me, steadying me. He doesn’t let go, just guides me into a nearby chair like I’m something fragile.

“Oh my God,” I whisper, breathless, pressing a hand to my forehead. “I didn’t realize… I’m so stupid. I didn’t think—” The words stick in my throat, the weight of what could’ve happened sinking in.

“You need to take your safety seriously,” he says, voice low. The worry in his gaze is unmistakable. His lips press into a thin line, as if he’s holding back something sharper, and I’m grateful for that small mercy.

“I know,” I murmur, the weight of it sinking in. “I’m just…not used to living like this.”

He nods once, tightly, still too on edge to relax. “Where did you leave your car? I’ll get it to the repair shop. Wait—how did you even get here?”

“I walked.”

His eyes flash with something unreadable, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he crosses to the fridge, grabs a bottle of water, and twists the cap off before pressing it into my hands. I tell him where the car is and take a long gulp, the cool water doing little to settle the tightness in my chest.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Do you need a first aid kit?” He glances briefly to my feet and his lips flatten.

I tuck my feet under my chair and say, “I’ll be fine.”

Tsking, he spins my rolly chair until I’m facing him and sinks to his knees. Without a word, he takes my right foot gently in his hands, his touch careful, as though he’s afraid of causing more pain. Unbuckling my high heel, I wince when he removes it. He inspects my foot before leaving for a moment and returning with a warm cloth, bandages, and an ointment. I expect him to toss them my way, but instead, he kneels back down, carefully cleaning the dirt and blood from my foot. His thumb brushes over the broken skin, so tenderly that I nearly flinch—not from the pain, but from the unfamiliarity of it.

The whole time, he doesn’t ask for anything. Doesn’t make it about him.

I can’t remember a single time Mom looked at me with anything but annoyance when I got hurt. No bandages.No soothing words. Her solution was to tell me to toughen up, that I was an inconvenience for even needing help. If I limped, she acted like it was a performance for attention—or worse, she’d use it to her advantage, spinning some sob story to guilt someone into giving her money.

But him? He’s not huffing, not making me feel like I’m a burden, even though he’s kneeling on pants that cost more than everything I own combined. Even though he’s a thousand times more important than my scraped feet. He just takes care of me. It’s so simple. So…unexpected.

As I watch him, a warmth I can’t quite name spreads through me. Maybe it’s the way he frowns in concentration as he unwraps the bandage, or how his fingers linger just long enough to make me feel seen. For the first time, I start to wonder ifthisis what love really is—not grand gestures or declarations, but someone willing to stay, to fix the little things you don’t even think deserve fixing. Someone who sees your pain, even when you’re too used to hiding it.

“Thank you,” I whisper when he finishes.

“I’m this close”—he pinches his thumb and pointer finger together—“to buying you something that straps onto your body so that you’ll have your phone on you at all times.”

“Sounds kinky.” I grin, trying to lighten up the somber mood he’s in.

But he doesn’t laugh. Instead, he squeezes my calves. “Don’t joke, not about this. Can we please find a solution? Together?”

“Sorry…” I grab his hands in mine, relieved he’s asking me for my input and not making the decision for me without my consent. He’s following through on his promise to include me in decisions, and that opens my heart to him even more. “Can I have security put back on me?”

“You don’t mind?”

I shake my head. “I need it. I don’t want to worry you again or put myself in danger.”

“Done.” He stands and sits in the chair next to me. “Are you hungry?”

I take in the spread that looks like he bought everything from the restaurant. “Starving, but you ordered too much.”

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