THE LIGHT SNAP OF THE FRONT DOOR SHUTTING STARTLES me from sleep. It’s not loud enough to be disruptive, but my body fires awake all the same. I sit straight up, heart pounding, and listen carefully.

    A thud. Followed by footsteps.

    I reach for my phone, knowing that I set the rm system just like Bash showed me to when I first moved in. It says it was disarmed one minute ago, which can only mean one thing.

    I tiptoe down the hallway and make my way to the stairs, taking them quietly just in case it isn’t Bash and I’m walking straight into my murderer’s trap.

    But once I turn the corner and peek into the darkened kitchen, I see a frame I’d recognize anywhere.

    Bash has his palms propped on the countertop and his head dropped like he’s catching his breath. He hasn’t even taken his boots off—something out of character because this man keeps a meticulous house.

    “Bash?” I ask carefully.

    He doesn’t lift his head. The only sign he hears me is the tensing of his broad shoulders.

    “I didn’t know you wereing home.”

    Now his shoulders drop, but he still doesn’t respond.

    “You okay?” I ask, moving closer to him. Reaching for him. Letting my hand trail over the curve of his upper spine. “What’s wrong?”

    I can just tell. Sure, usually he’s surly and ornery, but this is different.

    “Just really not feeling well.”

    My forehead scrunches, mind running through all the things that could be wrong so soon after donating an organ. “How’s your abdomen? Should we go to the hospital? I knew it was too soon—”

    “The surgery wasparoscopic, Gwen. I’m fine. I have a really bad headache, and I feel nauseous. I’m just tired.”

    My fingers press into the divots between his vertebrae, working their way down until I hear him sigh.

    “I’m really, really tired.” He shakes his head almost sadly. “Like exhausted. Gwen, I’m just so tired.” His voice cracks, and it does nothing to convince me that he’s okay.

    “That’s okay. You just have to honor that. You’re allowed to be tired. It’s normal to be tired.”

    He nods this time but makes no other motions.

    “Here.” I reach down, sliding my hand over his, linking our fingers. “Come on. Let’s go. You need to rest.”

    He turns now, dangerously dark eyes peering into mine from over his shoulder. They look tortured. He does look tired. And downtrodden and… sad.

    “You got this,” I say softly, not sure what’s wrong, only knowing that I would do anything to make him feel better.

    “I don’t know if I do,” he says back, voice rough like gravel. It makes my chest ache.

    “I’ve got you, then,” I murmur, giving him a tug as I turn away to lead him upstairs.

    I expect him to resist. But he doesn’t.

    He follows.

    The fact that he still doesn’t remove his boots sets me on edge. I may not know him all that well, but I know he would never walk through his beautiful home—across these meticulously finished hardwoods—with a pair of work boots on.

    I stop and turn to him. “Sit,” I say, pointing at the stairs.

    He looks stunned, but heplies and drops to a step stiffly. I swallow the lump in my throat beforeing to kneel before him. Silently, I lift his foot and uce the leather boot. I can feel him watching me, but he doesn’t speak. My palm squeezes his ankle as I set the boot aside and move on to the next one, one hand massaging rhythmically at his muscled calf while my fingers deftly weave through the tightces.

    With both boots set neatly on the mat, I reset the rm and take him by the hand again, urging him to stand.

    We walk up the stairs, hand in hand, and straight to his bedroom. I lead him over to the bed and give him a gentle push, forcing him to sit while I click on the bedsidemp before turning to study him more closely.

    Dark smudges beneath his eyes make them appear even darker than they already are. The shadow of his stubble makes his cheeks look just a little extra hollow. Even his hair doesn’t look as perfectly gelled as usual. In fact, it appears entirely unbrushed.

    Without thinking, I reach up and cup the side of his face. His eyes flutter shut, and his Adam’s apple bobs. Softly, I let my fingers trail over the ridge of his cheekbone, before fluttering over his temple, and then trailing behind his ear.

    “Have you been sleeping?”

    He opens his eyes. “Not much” is his gruff response. “It just hasn’te to me. Probably sick.”

    This big strong man who shows up for everyone around him, who always does the right thing, looks beaten down, and I can’t handle it.

    I give him a firm nod and squeeze his calloused hand as I take in the room around me. The expansive bed with crisp, white sheets. The mountain-scape art on the walls. The plush chair in the corner, tucked beside a standingmp with built-in bookshelves surrounding it. The perfect spot to curl up with a book.

    “I’ll be right back.”

    I move to leave, but his hand squeezes mine harder, a silent plea for me to stay. “Hey.” I squeeze back, bending at the hips to try and meet his gaze. “You change and get into bed. I’ming right back.”

    His responding nod is stiff as his fingers slowly go ck. It has me peeking back over my shoulder at him curiously as I walk away. The sight of him looking so small and defeated on the edge of his bed twists my heart. I get the sense that he needs me right now, so I make haste.

    I leave the room and head to mine, searching for any tools I can think of that will help him rx. Because I don’t think Bash is sick—I think Bash is burned out.

    When I get back to his room, he’s under the covers, t on his back, handsid over his stomach, almost like a corpse, while he stares up at the ceiling.

    I swallow down my anxiety at seeing him like this, looking so detached. It makes me wonder what he saw while he was away that pushed him to this point.

    Quietly, I set up my Bluetooth speaker and turn on my favorite calming ylist—Tibetan singing bowls.

    “Gwen,” he sighs my name like it means something. Like he knows he should tell me to stop but can’t bring himself to.

    “Bash,” I reply, my way of telling him to back off about it and let me take care of him. Because someone needs to.

    I draw the heavy curtains before padding back toward him. His eyes follow me, but every other part of him is still.

    My knees bump against the edge of his mattress on the opposite side of the bed as I hold up my ss vial ofvender oil. It’s clear, and the actual sprigs are suspended within. “I’m going to kneel on your bed and rub this into your temples. Please try not to get a boner.”

    Theugh he coughs out is sudden, and genuine, and something of a relief. “Okay, Gwen. If that makes you feel better.”

    With a soft smile, I crawl onto his bed. “Yes, I’m doing all this to make me feel better.”

    His lips are upturned when he closes his eyes, and it strikes me that Bash has never let his guard down around me like this. Actually, I don’t think Bash lets his guard down around anyone at all.

    He’s been hurt.

    Clyde’s words echo in my head as I realize it’s more than that. I’ve been hurt. But this? Bash is actively hurting. It’s different, and I hate it.

    I draw close enough that my knees press against his arm. Then I squeeze a few drops of the oil onto my fingertips, I rub them together to heat it before tentatively reaching over him and gently pressing my pointer and middle fingers onto each of his temples.

    He tenses at first, but then he softens. I work in gentle circles, slowing slightly with each rotation, as though I might unfurl the tension within him with my fingertips alone.

    “You’ve had a big year, Bash,” I say softly. “You’ve been through a lot.”

    His cheek hitches. “Not really.”

    “Yes, really. You’ve endured intense emotional upheaval. Tripp. Your ex. A major surgery.” I’m quiet for a few beats, the other thing that has caused him strife at the tip of my tongue.

    “Me,” I finally say.

    His eyes snap open,nding on mine as I continue to massage him.

    “You’re crashing. Your nervous system has got to be in overdrive. And yes, your incision may be healed, and physically you might feel fine, but those six weeks they rmend might be ounting for more than that. How is your mental health? How is your emotional health? Stress is often the spark for starting illness.”

    He watches me, lids slung low. He says nothing, so I carry on.

    “If I were you, I don’t think I’d be okay. You need to take care of yourself, not just everyone else. Or it wille back to haunt you.”

    “I know,” he whispers, eyes drawing shut once more, like he’s just too tired to even keep them open.

    “Does this feel okay?” I ask, not wanting to carry on gently scolding him.

    “Yes.”

    I pause for a moment, adding more oil before moving away from his temples, letting my fingers pulse softly on the lymph nodes in his neck.

    “You’re good at this,” he murmurs, dropping a hand on my thigh like it’s the most natural thing in the world to just casually touch each other.

    I clear my throat, trying not to fixate on the contact.

    “Thank you. Clyde likes it as well.” I can’t even mention the older man without smiling. I never imagined my rtionship with him would bring me such fulfillment. It feels serendipitous that he strolled into the yoga studio that day. “He’s doing better, you know. I think he’ll be good to go around the timeline we agreed upon and if his upational therapist agrees.”

    Bash hums deeply as I touch him. “That’s good. What about you, though?”

    My tongue darts out over my lips, a burst of nervousness tightening my chest. “I epted a job at a resort in Costa Rica, so I’ll be out of your hair in no time. Figure I’ll go a little early and spend some time traveling to other parts of the country. I’ll be due for a new adventure anyway.”

    Silence hangs between us, heavy and awkward. I can’t help but wonder if my words sound as hollow to Bash as they feel in my head. Several beats pass, and I turn my focus back to the task at hand, pressing harder to mask how self-conscious I suddenly feel.

    I sneak an uneasy peek down at him, eyes catching on the sh of silver in his sideburns and the dark stubble that dots his cheeks. His lips part and the anticipation of his response sends my stomach hurtling off a cliff. I don’t know why I care so much about what he thinks, but I do.

    And I expect him to say something about my uing ns—to give an opinion—but he catches me off guard when he asks, “What’s the deal with your dad?”

    My breathing hitches as I incline my head in thought. It might be the first personal thing Bash has ever asked me, not that I’ve volunteered much information. But it has me realizing I know a lot more about him than he knows about me.

    “Well, we’re estranged.”

    He grunts as I pull my fingers up behind his ears and then down over his throat.

    “He kicked me out when I was eighteen. Which isn’t really all that bad. I mean, I was an adult. But it was mostly because I wouldn’t do what he wanted me to. He’s incredibly old-fashioned.”

    “What did he want you to do?”

    “Marry my high school boyfriend and start a family or maybe go get a degree—but mostly just so that I could meet a husband. s, I wanted neither. I decided I would have fun, casual sex, meditate with my feet in the sand, and rubvender oil on people instead. He hasn’t spoken to me since I walked out with all my belongings in one suitcase. Sometimes I think I haven’t stopped moving around just to spite him, just to prove that I have control over how I live and when and where I do eventually settle. To prove I can live a happy, fulfilling life without abiding by his rules.”

    I chuckle, trying to cover the absurdity of the whole thing.

    “He still won’t talk to you? Ten yearster?”

    “It was less about yoga—though he made it clear he thinks it’s stupid—and more about control. He hated the fact I wouldn’t just do whatever he wanted. My mother embraced the homemaker role, which would be totally cool, except with them it was toxic. If dinner wasn’t on the table when he walked through the front door, the passive-aggressive bullshit started. Shirt not pressed perfectly? Then he’d joke about it being tooplicated of a job for her. But there was nothing funny about it.”

    “I hate him,” Bash practically growls, his fists clenching before my eyes.

    I smile at that, a tightness squeezing my throat. “I wish I could hate him. Thements about my weight should be enough. It fluctuated so much through my teen years and he always let me know that he noticed. Hormonal changes, yo-yo dieting, emotional eating—he’dment on every phase. Once, he even got me a treadmill for my birthday. Told me he thought it could help with that extra little bit I’d been carryingtely.”

    Iugh, but it’s humorless.

    Bash’s fingers curl to grip my thigh, firm and reassuring. I drop my chin to revel in the sight of his hand on my body. His silent support.

    It’sforting.

    Not wanting to gawk, I swallow the lump in my throat and carry on. “Obviously, he really fucked with the way I saw myself. Nothing I did was ever enough. And the feeling that no matter what I did, my body was fair game formentary—for notes and feedback—was inescapable.”

    Bash’s jaw tightens, his teeth clenching, but he doesn’tment. So I carry on. “Then I left. And my world opened up. I realized the way he treated me wasn’t healthy or even normal. That I could live a full life and find peace in my body. And I did it. I’m there. But I…” I pause and then push through. “I guess I’m still grieving a rtionship I’ll never have. I’ve spent years making peace with the fact that no matter what I do, he’ll never give me the approval I want. Because I defied him, and for him, that’s the ultimate insult. So I focus on loving myself. And most days, I do. Especially my ass and side boob. I’m a big fan of them,” I add, to lighten my gloomy monologue.

    “Fuck. Me too,” Bash mutters with a little groan.

    I chuckle, retreating into my head for a beat, reflecting on my childhood and how far I’vee.

    The air around us vibrates with the ringing of the ss bowls before I speak again.

    “The little girl in me will always wish it were different, though. Knowing I won’t have him there to walk me down the aisle or be a grandparent or just… any of those things. I’ve had to make peace with that.” I shrug. “Well, I guess I’m still trying. Some days are better than others. Like I said, daddy issues.”

    Bash peeks at me from beneath heavy lids. “What about your mom?”

    “We talk on the phone. It’s strained because I know he probably gives her shit for it and she’ll defend him until the day she dies. I don’t think it will ever change with those two. It’s hard to watch. Promised myself a long time ago that I wouldn’t end up like her.”

    “You won’t,” he murmurs in confirmation, sounding sleepy and rxed.

    I smile down over him, the satisfaction thates with helping people all warm and gooey in my chest.

    “I won’t let you,” Bash mumbles sleepily. That feeling in my chest goes hot and achy. It leaves a spark of hope.

    I don’t respond. There isn’t much to say to that. I just want to take the sentiment and cherish it.

    As I move to roll away, one of his hands shoots out, wrapping around my forearm. “I don’t want you to leave, Gwen,” he says, his voice rough with sleep.

    My heart skips. Because does he mean tonight? Or to Costa Rica?

    He doesn’t open his eyes to gauge my reaction—like he’s hiding from it instead.

    His hand slips away, not forcing me to do anything I don’t want to.

    My heart thuds, heavy andnguid, the rhythm of it humming in my veins. My head spins with the possibility of spending the night beside him.

    Or more? Could he mean more?

    I turn away from his still form, ce the oil on his bedside table, and flick off the light, plunging us into avender-scented darkness.

    Should I? Shouldn’t I?

    For a girl who’s ustomed to running, the decision to stay with Bash is all too easy to make.

    With my back to him, I confess quietly, “I don’t want to leave either.”

    And when I turn back to face him, he’s pulled the covers open—a silent invitation for me to join him beneath them.

    I stare at the spot where I know I’ll fit so perfectly, wondering if I’m crossing a line I shouldn’t.

    I decide I don’t care. I decide that where Sebastian Rousseau is concerned, I’ll take what I can get. It might not be forever, but I’ll settle for right now.

    So I slip under the duvet and let him hold me.