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Chapter 732:

“Don’t.” She held up a hand. “Don’t ask. Don’t—” she stopped, swallowed, felt her throat close around words she couldn’t speak. “Don’t make me explain. Not yet. Just—” she reached for him, found his hand, laced their fingers together, “—just let me be here. With you. Where it’s quiet p>

He nodded. Led her to the elevator, up to his apartment, his sanctuary—the space that had become hers without her noticing, without her choosing, simply by being the place where she could stop performing.

She sat on his couch. He brought ice and elevation and the careful attention of a man who had learned her needs without being told. He said nothing about her absence, her silence, the mud on her jeans, or the jacket that wasn’t hers and smelled of another man.

“Easton,” she said, finally.

“Mm p>

“I need to tell you something p>

𝘙𝖾а𝗱 𝖿r𝗈𝘮 𝗒𝗈𝘂𝘳 р𝗵o𝗻𝘦 𝗼ո

He sat beside her. Close enough to touch. Far enough to let her breathe.

“Crawford,” she said. “He was there. At the retreat. He—” she stopped, forced herself to continue, forced herself to be honest. “He helped me. I fell, hurt my ankle, and he—” she gestured at the injury, at the jacket she’d discarded, at the whole impossible morning, “—he carried me. Took care of me. Said things—” she laughed, bitter, “—said things I can’t forget. That I don’t want to remember. But I have to tell you. Because you deserve to know. Because I don’t want—” she met his eyes, letting him see the fear, the vulnerability, the absolute uncertainty, “—I don’t want there to be secrets between us. Not the kind that destroy things p>

Easton’s hand found hers. Squeezed.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what p>

“For telling me. For trusting me enough to tell me.” He brought her hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to her knuckles, and held it there. “I know what he is, June. What he wants. What he’s willing to do to get it.” He looked at her, his gray eyes absolutely steady. “And I know what you are. What you need. What you’re trying to build, with me, despite everything p>

“Despite everything,” she repeated.

“Yes.” He smiled—small, private, absolutely real. “Despite Crawford. Despite Cole. Despite the whole world that seems to think it has a claim on you.” He shifted closer, his arm sliding around her shoulders, pulling her against his side with a gentleness that made her eyes sting. “I’m not going anywhere, June. Not because you need me. Because I choose to be here. With you. In this. Whatever this becomes p>

She let herself lean into him. Let herself be held, be supported, be seen without the performance, without the armor, without the absolute necessity of being strong.

“Easton p>

“Mm p>

“Can we stay here? Today. Tomorrow. Just—” she gestured, vague, helpless, “—just here. Where it’s quiet. Where no one knows where we are p>

“Yes,” he said. “For as long as you need p>

The ice pack had migrated to the floor.

June watched it from the couch—a slowly melting puddle spreading across Easton’s expensive rug—and couldn’t summon the energy to care. Her ankle throbbed inside its compression wrap, the lateral ligament protesting every shift of position, every attempt to find comfort on leather that had been designed for appearance rather than healing.