“But you didn’t know if I would ever agree to come here.”
“I knew you would.”
I turn to look at him. There is no arrogance in his face. Like my arrival was not a possibility he hoped for, but a fact he had already accepted and prepared for.
I back away from the closet and step into the bathroom. Then I stop all over again. The shelves are full of things. My face cleanser. The body wash I bought twice since arriving at Kenyan. The same moisturizer I keep in my backpack because my dorm bathroom dries out my skin. The exact lip balm in the front pocket of my bag. My toothbrush brand and toothpaste.
My throat closes when I open a vanity drawer. Hair ties. A brush, pads, tampons, and pain reliever. Even a heating pad still folded in its box.
Everything I might need and would have been too embarrassed to ask for.
I pick up the moisturizer with fingers that don’t feel like mine. “How did you know?”
Saint leans against the doorway. “I watched.”
I look at him. “You went through my stuff.”
He shrugs. “I don’t sleep much.”
The answer should horrify me. But another part—the smaller, weaker part I hate admitting exists—looks at the drawer and sees something I have never had before.
Consideration.
Not the pretty kind. This is darker. Meticulous.
“You planned all of this,” I whisper.
He frowns slightly. “No.”
I look back at him.
“I prepared.”
There is a difference to him, and I can see it with the way he looks at me when he says it. Planning sounds like fantasy. Preparation sounds like being chosen and waiting for my arrival.
I step out of the bathroom and look around his bedroom again. The only feminine presence in this house was waiting for me. The realization splits something open in my chest. No one has ever made space for me before. I have spent my entire life trying to be smaller. Easier. Quieter. Less trouble. Roman kept me caged in his space for his own enjoyment.
Saint made room for me before I asked—an equal space. My eyes burn.
His voice lowers. “Amy.”
I shake my head. “Don’t.”
He doesn’t move closer like he knows that would break me.
He stays where he is, hands at his sides, letting me have the room. Letting me decide what to do with all this. All this care that feels too close to obsession. All this obsession that feels too close to care. I sit on the edge of his bed because my legs don’t feel steady. The blankets are soft beneath my palms.
Saint watches me like I’m something he has waited years to see in this exact place.
“You really thought I’d come here someday,” I say.
His eyes hold mine. “No.” His voice is quiet. “I hoped.”
Saint
She falls asleep in my bed like she was meant to be there. Curled on her side beneath my blankets, she has one hand tucked under her cheek, hair spread across my pillow like the room finally has a reason to exist. I stand beside the window and watch the monitors. Every camera holds a 360-degree perimeter. Every lock is engaged. Every motion sensor reads clean. But it isn’t enough when it comes to her safety.
The house is secure by every measurable standard. Reinforced doors. Bullet-resistant glass. Two exits she doesn’t know about yet. Three weapons within reach from where I stand. Six more downstairs. A panic room behind the west bookcase with its own ventilation and power supply.