Silence stretches between us. I can picture him pacing his manicured street, checking who might be watching. Always performing, even when no one’s around.
Noah rounds the corner into the room, his expression questioning, alert.
“I don’t like it,” Richard says finally. “How much time is he spending with my daughter?”
I meet Noah’s gaze head-on. “He’s a good person, Richard. And might I remind you, you’ve introduced Stella to plenty of women without consulting me first.”
“We’ll talk later.”
The call ends. No goodbye, just static and then quiet. I stare at the phone for a moment before setting it facedown.
“He’s unbelievable,” I mutter.
“Everything okay?” Noah asks, leaning against the doorway, all controlled strength and quiet watchfulness.
“Yes,” I sigh, rubbing my temple. “Just Richard living up to his nickname.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “All secure.”
“Locked up?”
“Locked up, lights out, alarms active. Nothing moving but the trees.”
Something in the way he says it—so calm, so certain—steadies me. I stand, smoothing my hands over my jeans, trying to shake off the call’s residue. “Let me go up and say goodnight to Stella. Then I’ll come down.”
He nods. “Take your time.”
Upstairs, the soft glow from the hallway spills under Stella’s door. I knock lightly.
“’Night, baby,” I whisper when she murmurs her reply. She’s already in bed, half-asleep, her silky strands spread over the pillow. I tuck the blanket around her shoulders, a small ritual that still feels necessary, even as she edges closer to independence.
Downstairs, the house feels different. The air carries that deep late-night quiet—a hush that comes when everything dangerous is kept at bay, if only for now. The scent of him—clean soap, cedar, mint—threads the air.
Noah’s on the couch, laptop closed, shoulders relaxed. When he looks up, his expression softens in a way that undoes something inside me.
“All quiet?” I ask.
“For now.” He gestures toward the space beside him. “You okay?”
“I will be.”
I cross the room and sink onto the couch, my body angling toward his. For a long beat, neither of us speaks. The silence hums, thick and charged, filled with all the things we shouldn’t want.
“I hate how easily he gets under my skin,” I admit finally.
“That’s what he’s counting on.” His voice is low, worn velvet.
“He still thinks he has a right to weigh in. About everything.”
“He doesn’t.”
I turn toward him. “You sound so sure.”
“I am.” His gaze holds mine. “You’ve done enough fighting for other people, Alicia. You don’t need to justify what brings you peace.”
Peace. The concept fits somewhere between comfort and ache. I glance away, blinking against the sudden heat in my throat. “You make it sound so simple.”
He leans closer, the air between us thinning. “Doesn’t mean it’s easy.”