Annelly

I wake up alone, and for a moment, I almost let myself believe the silence in the room means everything’s okay. That there was no flower delivery. No rush to go on the run in the middle of the night again. No argument that cracked something between James and me I’m not sure can ever be fixed.

But it only takes a few seconds for the memories to come rushing back, each one landing heavy against my chest until the last traces of sleep are gone, leaving nothing behind but a dull ache and the thick, empty quiet.

I stare at the ceiling, trying to remember the last time I felt like myself. Before the mess in New York. Before him. Life was so much simpler back then—school, my friends, my cousin, my mom. That was it. All I had to worry about.

But then I met him. James. That summer was supposed to be about helping my cousin and her girls find normalcy amid the chaos of being stashed away, hiding from her ex-husband’s enemies. And there he was. Confident. Cocky. All alpha male, bossy, and vigilant. He missed nothing. Not the way I blushed every time he entered the room. Not the way my eyes lingered on him when I thought he wasn’t looking. 

At first, he took it all in stride, almost reveling in the way I couldn’t control my body, my mouth, my thoughts when I was around him. But then it slowly evolved into something like friendship. He made me believe I could trust him. That he would always take care of things. Take care of me. 

Until one day, he didn’t. 

I had crossed some unspoken line that triggered something in him I never expected. Instead of talking to me, of letting me down gently, reinforcing the boundaries of whatever we were, he tore my heart out. He pushed me away. Told me to leave. Go back to school. Because whatever we had was over.

That was the first time. And since then, it’s like any time he feels too vulnerable, or senses I’m getting too close to seeing the real him, something in him snaps. Some defense mechanism. He shoves me aside with absolute force, breaking my heart all over again.

It’s almost funny how quickly I’ve learned to brace for that whiplash. How I’ve gotten used to feeling safe and wanted one minute… and discarded the next. 

I should be angry. Or something close to it. 

But all I feel is tired. So tired I could lie here for hours, maybe days, and still not feel rested.

But that’s not an option. I can’t stay hidden under these blankets forever. I have to get up. I have to be an adult about this, whatever this is. Because no matter how much I wish it wasn’t true, reality is waiting for me downstairs. And so is he.

It takes more effort than it should to swing my legs over the side of the bed. My body feels heavy, like I’m carrying every sleepless night and every unanswered question inside my bones. 

I sit there for a moment, letting my feet rest on the cool floor, my hands curled in the blanket like I might change my mind and climb right back under it. 

But hiding won’t make this any easier. If anything, it’ll just drag out the part I’m dreading most—having to look him in the eye as we both pretend everything is okay. 

It’s what we do.

So I stand.

I pull on the most comfortable clothes I can find: soft leggings, a long-sleeved sweatshirt, a pair of thick socks. Nothing special. Nothing that makes me feel beautiful or fragile or anything at all. Just something to keep me warm in this cold hell we’re living in.

By the time I smooth my hair back and press a hand to my chest, I’m no closer to feeling ready. But I have no choice. I have to face him.

The stairs creak under my feet, announcing me before I even reach the bottom.

The house isn’t exactly bright—more like the gentle hush of the midday sun drifting in through the canopy of trees. Sun rays slant across the warm wood floors and soft earth-toned walls. 

It should feel cozy. Homey. But instead, it feels… off. Like all the air has been sucked out of the room and replaced with something brittle.

When I turn the corner, he’s standing in the kitchen, a loaf of bread open on the counter in front of him. There’s a small stack of sandwiches already wrapped, and he’s halfway through slicing another when he hears me.

His shoulders tense just enough to show he knows I’m here. Then he glances over, his eyes shining like he’s been listening for my footsteps all morning.

For a tense heartbeat, neither of us says anything. The only sound is the soft scrape of the knife as he sets it down.

I can see it now—how hard he’s trying to look composed. The careful way he schools his expression. The little tremor in his hand when he wipes a crumb off the counter, like the strain of hiding what he’s feeling is costing him.

But then he gives me a tentative smile. Small. Hopeful.

And something terrible shifts around in my chest. Suddenly, I want to go to him. God, I want nothing more than to be wrapped up in the warm safety of his arms. 

But I can’t.

I won’t.

After everything, it would be foolish of me to give in to those instincts again.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just watches me with that careful, measuring look, as if he’s trying to figure out what to do next. 

Then, like he’s come to some decision, he rounds the counter. He moves slowly, as if he’s approaching a scared animal. Like he’s afraid any sudden movement might send me bolting back up the stairs.

He stops just in front of me, his hand hovering at his side, waiting for some sign. Some small permission I’m too stunned to give. But when I don’t step away, it’s like that small mercy is enough. 

In the next beat, he exhales—long, shaky—and steps in close, wrapping his arms around me. He’s tentative at first, then tighter. Tight enough that I feel every inch of him pressed against me. The warmth. The tension. The desperate way he breathes me in, like he’s trying to reassure himself I’m still here.

For one dangerous moment, I almost give in. Almost let myself melt into him, let myself believe it could be that simple. That we could just be two people clinging to each other because nothing else makes sense anymore. 

But then what happens the next time he gets scared? The next time he feels too vulnerable around me? The next time he decides my closeness is a threat?

Though I don’t pull away the way my mind is screaming for me to do, I don’t fully lean in, either.

For several breaths, we stay there, stuck in the space between. The hug is warm in a way that’s comforting, yet unfinished. His breath shudders when he exhales. Then he shifts just enough to press his lips to the top of my head.

The tenderness of it nearly undoes me. 

I bite down on the inside of my cheek and swallow hard, trying to force back the ache rising in my throat. I can’t cry. I won’t. Things are already hard enough without throwing my tears into the mix.

When he finally eases back, his hands stay on my arms, like he can’t quite bring himself to let go. Then he looks at me—really looks—his eyes searching every inch of my face.

For what, I’m not sure. Forgiveness, maybe. Or permission to move on, to go about our day like everything is fine. Whatever he’s searching for, I just hold his gaze, hoping he can’t see the thin ledge I’m balanced on. Hoping he doesn’t realize how much he’s already hurt me.

Finally, he lets his hands fall away, but he doesn’t step back. Instead, he tries for a smile—one of those crooked, confident ones that used to make my heart skip a beat. Except this one doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You hungry?” he asks, his voice scratchy, like he hasn’t spoken to anyone in days.

I almost tell him no. Almost lie, just so I don’t have to accept something from him. But my stomach betrays me, hollow and aching from hours without food.

So I nod. “Yeah. A little.”

A flicker of relief crosses his face as he gestures toward the counter.

“I’m packing a lunch,” he says, and for a moment, something hopeful edges into his tone. “Thought…maybe we could spend some time together. Eat outside. Talk. By the lake.”

The way he says it—soft, almost careful—makes it sound too much like an invitation to something else. Like a date.

My stomach knots up, and he must see it on my face because he clears his throat and looks away. His fingers twitch against the counter, suddenly restless.

“I just thought…” He drags a hand over his jaw, his ears going pink with embarrassment as he searches for the right words. “A bit of fresh air might do us some good. Clear our heads. We can do a little fishing. Maybe catch tonight’s dinner. Just…do something normal for once. Like we used to. No pressure. No expectations.”

Of course. Makes perfect sense now. Non-committal, and so on brand with James. Knowing this, I shouldn’t be disappointed, yet here I am.

Like he’s reading my thoughts, his face falls. In the next breath, he tries to shrug it off like it’s no big deal, except it’s impossible to miss the way his jaw flexes. The way he keeps fidgeting. Clearly, my saying yes means more to him than he wants to let on.

So I nod, looking away to spare us both the moment when I see the relief I’m sure he’s unsuccessfully trying to mask.

“Um… would you like some help?” I ask, my eyes downcast as I take in the old scuff marks lining the rustic wooden floors with feigned interest.

“Nope.” He pops the p as he takes my hand and leads me to the small kitchen table, his palm warm and steady against mine. “Have a seat. I’ll take care of everything.”

I do as he says, purposely ignoring the tingles his touch leaves behind on my skin, and lower myself into one of the chairs. 

He wastes no time after that. He busies himself, adding things to the small cooler—bottled water, a couple of sodas, packets of trail mix, grapes, then the wrapped sandwiches. His every movement is precise, lining everything up just right in that classic James Serrano way.

Then he grabs a folded blanket he must have brought down earlier. He smooths it with the palm of his hand before setting it beside the cooler like it’s the final piece of some fragile offering.

When he glances at me again, I see it.

That fragile hope in his expression.

Like he’s hoping this small outing is enough to mend everything that’s splintered between us.

 “Why don’t you go grab your jacket,” he says softly. “It’s warmed up quite a bit. The weather here is nicer than home, so you won’t need to bundle up.”

As he shuts the cooler and latches it shut, I move to do as he asks, pausing by the front door to pull on my boots.

When he joins me there, he hesitates, then glances down at my leg. 

“Your knee feels okay to do a little walking?” His voice is gentler now, almost hesitant. Then, almost shy, he adds, “If not…I could carry you.”

The way he says it—like he’d actually do it without a second thought—almost makes me laugh. The absurdity of it breaks through the heaviness pressing on my chest. 

Him carrying me across the stretch of forest to the lake. 

I shake my head, and to my surprise, I’m smiling. Just a little. But it’s enough to ease some of the tension between us.

“You do not need to carry me, James.” I roll my eyes in feigned annoyance. “I’m fine. I hardly feel it anymore.”

He watches me for a beat, like he’s memorizing the shape of my lips and the smile I can’t seem to erase, and for the first time since I walked into the kitchen, something shifts between us. Just a fraction softer. A fraction less afraid. Less uncertain.

He clears his throat, like he doesn’t trust himself to say anything else, and moves to open the front door. Outside on the porch, he grabs two fishing poles and a tackle box he must have set out earlier while I was still sleeping.

I pull my jacket a little tighter around myself and follow him into the cool, fresh afternoon air. It smells clean out here, like pine and damp earth. The stillness of the woods is comforting. It feels like the kind of place where nothing bad is supposed to happen, which I guess is what makes it the perfect place for a safe house.

We walk side by side down the narrow path that leads toward the lake, our steps falling into a rhythm that feels almost normal. Like we’re in sync. 

And for a moment—just a single, suspended moment—I’m struck by how surreal it all feels.

Like we’re playing house in a life that isn’t really ours. A life, I think we both want, but may never get to keep.

And maybe that’s okay.

Maybe he’s right—that this is what we need.

A moment to breathe. To think. To just be.

Even if only for a little while. 

Even if neither of us is ready for whatever comes next.

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