It’s the kiss of a woman who has been holding her breath for years and is finally, shudderingly, exhaling.
Her lips are soft, parting slightly to let me in, her tongue flickering against mine in a tentative, searching rhythm.
It’s a conversation without words—a confession of everything she couldn't say.
Her fingers bunch the fabric of my jacket, pulling me closer until there is no air left between us, pressing her chest against mine until I can feel her heart slamming through both our layers.
The kiss tastes of salt from her tears and the sharp, crisp bite of the February air, but beneath it all is the sweet, overwhelming taste of relief.
I kiss her back with everything I have, pouring every ounce of my devotion into the pressure of my lips.
I’m gentle where she is fragile, my touch light and reverent, yet steady where she is shaking, providing the anchor she’s been searching for.
We stand on the back porch of Backroads, the freezing wind howling around us, but the cold doesn't touch us.
There’s a heat burning between us—a slow, simmering fire born of shared trauma and an unbreakable bond—and it isn't going out.
I can feel the warmth of her breath against my skin, the way she sighs into my mouth.
A sound I've never heard from her before. Open. Unguarded. Like she finally stopped fighting it.
When we finally break apart, it’s only by a fraction of an inch.
She keeps her grip on my jacket, her knuckles white, refusing to let go, as if I am the only thing keeping her grounded in the world.
"There's more." Her voice is rough. "About why I've been scared. About the man in the parking lot."
My body goes still. Not the stillness of calm. The stillness of a man whose instincts are screaming.
"His name is Dale Creedy." She says it like she's pulling a splinter. "He did time with my father. He showed up at my mom's house with a message. Said my father sent him."
She takes a breath. It shudders on the way in.
"He's been following my mom. Showing up at the gas station, driving past the house. And the other day, he was in the parking lot. Waiting for me."
I'm running the numbers in my head. Creedy. Twelve years. Aggravated assault.
Two counts. Both women.
"He said my father talks about me all the time." Her grip tightens on my jacket. "He had my graduation photo. He knew my childhood nickname. He knew things only my father could have told him."
The cold I'm feeling has nothing to do with being early March.
"How long?" My voice sounds different. Lower. Flatter. "How long has this been going on?"
She hesitates. "A few weeks."
My jaw flexes. "And you didn't tell me?"
It's not an accusation. I keep it level, keep it steady. But she hears what's underneath.
"I didn't want you to look at me differently." She says it to my chest, not my face. "I didn't want you to hear the name Halstead and have a bad opinion of me."
I lift her chin with my finger until she's looking at me. "You should’ve told me what was going on, Saylor."
She presses her lips together. "I know."
"Not because I needed to protect you. Because you were carrying this alone, and you didn't have to."