Page 99 of The Space Between
She’s fire.
Bright. Bold. Unapologetic.
And she looks at me like I’m worth standing still for.
That’s what fucks with me.
I don’t know how to hold something like that without dropping it.
Without breaking it.
By the timeI’ve cleared the last of the dock and hosed everything down, my shirt’s soaked and the sun’s dropped low enough to drag shadows across the gravel. I peel the shirt over my head, toss it into the back of the truck, and sit on the tailgate, sweat cooling on my skin.
I should leave it alone.
I should let her move on.
Just back off completely and let her have her fresh start without the weight of me dragging her under.
But then I picture her in that classroom. Bright-eyed. Brave as hell. Probably standing in front of thirty kids with nothing but a whiteboard and a heart she’s still stitching back together. And IknowI can’t stay gone.
Not now.
Not after the way she kissed me back.
Not after the way she stood in that river and didn’t flinch when I broke apart.
I don’t leavethe shop until after eight.
The drive from the shop to my porch takes three minutes. Her cabin lights are still on.
My boots crunch the gravel between our places. It’s a short walk. Five minutes. Less, if I’m not dragging my feet like I’ve got something to prove to no one.
I knock.
And wait.
The door opens, and she’s standing there barefoot, a pair of worn flannel shorts on and a tank top that clings to her like the heat does. Her hair’s down, loose and wild. She doesn’t say anything, just looks at me like she’s not sure whether to slam the door in my face or pull me inside.
“I owe you something,” I say.
Her brows draw together. “You don’t owe me?—”
“An explanation,” I cut in. “Not an apology. Not bullshit. Just the truth.”
She doesn’t move, so I keep going.
“I lost them six years ago. Molly and Aubree. You know that. The guilt never left. It sits inside of me. It festers. But it’s not just the grief that eats me alive—it’sknowingI was driving. I was behind the wheel. I made the call to keep going when the storm got worse. I didn’t stop. I thought I could make it. And I didn’t. Not for them. Not when it counted.” Her mouth parts. But I’m not done. “I’ve been sleepwalking since that day. Breathing because I have to, not because I want to. Waking up and going to work and pretending I’m still a man instead of just a ghost in his clothes. And then you showed up, and you looked at me like Iwasn’truined. Like I was still in the goddamn room.”
Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Youarein the room, Gruene.”
I step closer. “I don’t know how to be this. I don’t know how to want something andkeepit. But Iwantyou. And that scares thefucking shitout of me, Blakelyn. I want you even though I shouldn’t. I keep touching you because I can’tnottouch you. You say shit like you wantmoreand I want to run but I keep comingback, because I want more,too, even though I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve you. But here I am. All the broken, fucked up scarred, emotional wasteland parts of me.”
She takes a breath, saying nothing. She just looks at me with her eyes wide and her mouth parted. Then, she leans back and opens the door.
I step inside.
The cabin is quiet. Soft lamplight spills across the hardwood, casting shadows on the walls and catching the golden flecks in her honeyed eyes as she turns to face me.
