“You’re smiling,” she accuses, hands on her hips, like she’s caught me committing a crime.
“I’m not,” I lie.
She points at my face. “That’s a smile.”
I glance down at the plate I’m making—real eggs, real toast, the kind of breakfast that won’t require the fire department—and I realize my chest feels light. Like something in me that’s been locked up for years is finally breathing.
Because she’s here.
Because she’s safe.
Because she’smine—not in the possessive way I’d never say out loud, but in the way my soul has apparently decided she matters more than my own peace.
I set the plate down and turn to her. She’s watching me carefully now, like she can sense a shift. Like she’s waiting for me to say something that could change the air between us. I don’t want to scare her. But I’m tired of holding the truth behind my teeth like it’s something dangerous.
“Fiona,” I say, voice low.
“Yeah?” she answers, trying to sound casual, but failing. Her fingers go to her hair—tucking it behind her ear, then forgetting and doing it again.
I step closer, close enough that she has to lift her chin to look at me. Close enough that I can see the tiny freckles across her nose and the way her pupils widen when my attention is on her. “I’m all in,” I tell her.
Her breath catches. “Chase?—”
“No,” I say gently. “Let me finish.”
I take her hands. Her palms are warm. Slightly damp. She’s nervous. Pretending not to be. That’s her thing.
“I know this isn’t simple,” I continue. “I know you’ve got a life off this mountain. A job. A home. People. You might want to go back when this is done.”
Her throat works like she’s trying to swallow emotions.
“And if you do,” I say, “I’ll go with you.”
Her eyes widen. “What?”
“I’m not saying tomorrow,” I add quickly. “I’m not saying I’m quitting Haven 7 in five minutes and buying a condo downtown.”
She lets out a shaky laugh that sounds half-disbelieving, half-relieved.
“I’m saying… if this ends and you want to go home, and you want me there…” I hold her gaze. “I’ll do it. I’d do anything for you.” The words land between us like a vow.
Fiona’s lips part. Her eyes shine. For a second, she looks like she’s about to step into it—into me, into this, into whatever we’re becoming.
And God help me, I want her to. I want her to say yes. I want her to choose me without fear.
She swallows, voice small. “Chase… I?—”
My phone buzzes.
Once.
Twice.
Then again—sharp, insistent, the kind of alert that slices right through a moment and turns it into ash.
Silas.
My stomach drops before I even look. I glance at the preview: