CHAPTER FIVE — A House That Holds Its Breath

Dawson’s house looked like a man had bought it because it was the logical next step, not because he’d ever pictured himself living inside it.

Neat lawn. Solid porch. Windows like steady eyes.

No warmth spilling out.

When he unlocked the door, he did it quickly, shoulders angled as if the quiet street might suddenly decide to become a threat. He stepped in first, paused, listening, scanning, then held the door open for me with the reflexive courtesy of someone raised right.

“After you,” he said.

The words were polite. The way he watched the threshold wasn’t.

I walked in, and the air inside hit me: cool, stale, faintly metallic, like the house had been waiting too long for a heartbeat.

It was clean in the way that didn’t feel lived in. Not messy, clean like Liberty’s apartment above her bakery, where flour dusted everything like soft snow and the sink always held a brave stack of dishes. This was controlled-clean. The kind you keep when you don’t want anything out of place because out of place means out of control.

A couch that looked barely sat on. A kitchen that looked barely used. A small stack of mail on the counter, unopened.

And walls, so many blank walls.

No photos.

No clutter.

No evidence that anyone had ever laughed here.

Dawson shut the door and turned the deadbolt, then, after a beat, latched a second lock above it. Not theatrically. Just… automatically.

My throat tightened.

“I can go,” I said, because the quiet made my voice sound too loud.

Dawson didn’t turn around right away. “You just got here.”

“I drove you home. I made sure you didn’t pass out on your own porch. That counts as checking on you.”

His shoulders rose with a slow breath, then fell. “You don’t have to talk like a chart note.”

I swallowed. “Sorry. Habit.”

He finally faced me. In daylight, without the hospital’s harsh lighting, he looked even more like a man who’d been carved down and rebuilt wrong. Broad shoulders, yes. Height that made the doorframe look small. But it was the stillness that got me, the way his body never fully relaxed, even in his own home.

His gaze flicked over my face, quick and assessing, then softened a fraction.

“Do you want coffee?” he asked.

I blinked. “You have coffee?”

A small, almost smile touched his mouth. “I’m not feral.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You implied it.”

“I did not.”

Dawson’s eyes held mine for a moment longer than necessary, and something quiet passed between us, familiarity, maybe. A memory of easier versions of ourselves.

Then he looked away first, like it was safer.

“I’ll make some,” he said.

He moved toward the kitchen with controlled efficiency, but I watched the way his attention tracked, corners, windows, the back door. As if he was counting exit routes. As if home was just another place that required strategy.

I stepped farther in, letting my coat slip off my shoulders. The living room smelled faintly of detergent and nothing else. No candles. No cooking. No lingering perfume of life.

On the end table sat a framed photograph facedown.

My chest tightened again, because I knew what that meant too: something he owned but couldn’t look at.

Dawson’s voice came from the kitchen. “You can sit.”

“I’m fine,” I called back automatically, then winced at myself. I sounded like him.

I sat anyway, because the couch was too pristine and the distance between us felt like a cliff.

The coffee machine sputtered, loud in the silence.

Dawson flinched.

It was quick, barely there, but I saw it.

His shoulders jerked. His head snapped slightly, eyes narrowing at nothing.

Then he smoothed himself back into stillness like it hadn’t happened.

The sight made my stomach twist, not with pity, exactly, but with a helpless kind of anger. At whatever had trained his body to respond to harmless noise like it was incoming fire.

He returned with two mugs.

One he handed to me.

Our fingers brushed.

His hand was warm, rough at the fingertips, and the contact was so brief it shouldn’t have mattered.

It did.

He sat across from me, not beside me, like closeness was something he didn’t yet know how to allow.

We drank in silence for a minute.

Then Dawson cleared his throat. “Liberty said she’s doing good.”

“She’s doing Liberty,” I corrected, and he huffed what might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t been so quiet.

His gaze drifted past my shoulder toward the hallway, as if listening for something that wasn’t there.

“How’s the pain?” I asked, softening my voice.

He took a sip of coffee that was probably too hot and didn’t react. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not going to be fine if you act like nothing happened,” I said, more firmly than I meant to.

His eyes flicked to mine. “I’m not acting like nothing happened.”

I held his gaze. “Then let yourself heal.”

A beat of silence.

Something changed in his face, not anger, not annoyance. Something more vulnerable. Like my words had landed too close to the truth he’d been trying to avoid.

He set his mug down carefully, as if control could be practiced even in small movements.

“I don’t know how to be…” he began, then stopped.

I didn’t fill in the blank for him. I waited.

Dawson’s jaw flexed. “I don’t know how to be here,” he finished.

The simplicity of it cracked something open in me.

Here, in this house. In this town. In this life that was supposed to be normal now.

I swallowed. “You don’t have to know all at once.”

His gaze dropped to his hands. “I was good at the other thing.”

War, without naming it.

Purpose that came with orders and clear enemies.

He looked up, eyes storm grey and exhausted. “I don’t feel good at this.”

My chest tightened.

I wanted to say 'you don’t have to earn being loved', but the sentence felt too intimate, too dangerous, too close to betraying the way my heart had always leaned toward him.

So I said, “You’ll adjust.”

Dawson’s mouth twisted slightly. “That’s what people say when they don’t know what else to say.”

My cheeks warmed. “Fine. I don’t know what else to say.”

He studied me like he was taking in the honesty, turning it over.

Then, softly: “Thank you for not pretending.”

The words landed like a hand against my ribs.

I looked down at my coffee. “I should go soon. You need rest.”

Dawson didn’t answer immediately.

The silence stretched until it started to feel like a decision.

Then he said, voice low, “Do you think you could… stay a little longer?”

My heart thudded, hard and disobedient.

“Dawson,” I began, the name tasting strange on my tongue in this context, alone with him, in his house, with the afternoon light slanting through the window like a secret.

His gaze held mine, steady and almost pleading. “Just until it gets dark.”

I hesitated, and in the hesitation I felt the outline of my own fear: that staying would become a habit, and habits become attachments, and attachments become the kind of thing that can ruin you when they’re taken away.

But I also felt something else: the reality of him. The tension in his shoulders. The tiredness in his eyes. The way his home held its breath as if it didn’t trust peace.

“Okay,” I said quietly. “Until it gets dark.”

Dawson’s exhale was so slow it felt like he’d been holding it since he asked.

“Okay,” he echoed.

---

Time moved strangely in Dawson’s house.

In the hospital, minutes were sharp and counted, measured in vitals, in decisions, in the thin line between life and loss. Here, time stretched like taffy, sticky and slow, filled with quiet moments that felt louder than sirens.

He didn’t put on music.

He didn’t turn on the TV.

He sat, drank coffee, got up to check the locks without thinking, then sat again like he’d been trained to live in cycles of vigilance.

I tried to fill the quiet gently.

I asked about his follow up appointments. His meds. His appetite.

He answered with brief, obedient honesty.

Then, eventually, I asked the question that had been burning a hole in my chest since the ICU.

“Do you want to talk about the nightmares?” I said.

Dawson’s gaze snapped to mine.

The air sharpened.

“No,” he said, too fast.

I nodded once. “Okay.”

The speed of my agreement seemed to surprise him. His shoulders eased a fraction.

I kept my voice steady. “If you ever do… I can listen. I’m not a therapist, but I can listen.”

Dawson stared at me for a long moment. Then he looked away, eyes fixed on the blank wall like it was safer than my face.

“People always want details,” he said quietly. “They want… stories. Like it’s a movie.”

“I don’t,” I said.

His jaw flexed. “Why?”

I swallowed. “Because you’re not entertainment. You’re… you.”

The words came out softer than I intended, and the tenderness in them made my throat ache.

Dawson turned his head slightly, eyes meeting mine.

For a second, he looked almost young again. Not boyish, never that, but unguarded enough that I saw the shape of who he used to be beneath the armour.

Then the guard slammed back down.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Okay.”

As the afternoon faded, my phone buzzed.

Liberty.

I answered, already bracing. “Hey. Everything okay?”

Liberty’s voice came through tight and bright, the way she sounded when she was trying to make fear look like comedy. “Define okay.”

My stomach tightened. “Liberty.”

“I broke things off with Trent,” she said quickly. “Like, officially. With words.”

I exhaled. “Good.”

“Except,” she continued, “he is now doing that thing where he pretends it’s a debate and not a decision.”

I closed my eyes. “What did he do?”

Liberty sighed. “He came by the bakery twice today.”

“Twice?” I repeated, my voice sharpening.

“Once with flowers,” Liberty said. “Once with a vibe.”

“A vibe,” I echoed flatly.

“Yes. Like, he didn’t say anything outright. He just stood there too long. Like he was trying to remind me he exists.”

Cold crept along my spine.

“Did he threaten you?” I asked.

“No.” Liberty paused. “Not with words.”

I swallowed. “Lib, if he shows up again, call me. Or call the police.”

Liberty snorted. “And say what? ‘Officer, there’s a man being weird near my cinnamon rolls’?”

“Liberty.”

Her voice softened, finally losing the joke-edge. “Okay. Okay, I will.”

“Are you alone?”

“Not right now,” she said. “Marisol’s closing with me.”

Marisol, her employee, sweet and tough, the kind of woman who could weaponize a rolling pin if necessary.

“Good,” I said. “Lock up. Don’t walk to your car alone.”

Liberty was quiet for a moment, then said, very softly, “Are you with Dawson?”

My pulse jumped. “Yes.”

Liberty exhaled, and I heard relief in it. “Good. Keep him company. I’ll be fine.”

The way she said *I’ll be fine* sounded like she was trying to convince herself.

“I’ll come by later,” I promised.

“You can’t,” Liberty said quickly. “You’re probably exhausted. And he, ” She paused. “He needs you.”

My throat tightened. “Liberty.”

“Bye,” she said, and hung up before I could argue.

I stared at my phone for a moment, then looked up.

Dawson was watching me.

Not nosy. Not intrusive.

Just… attentive.

Something about that attention made my skin feel too aware of itself.

“Liberty?” he asked.

“She ended things with Trent,” I said.

Dawson’s jaw tightened. “Good.”

“She says he’s been showing up,” I added.

The air in the room changed.

Dawson’s posture went subtly still, predatory in a controlled way. Like a part of him had woken up that didn’t belong to quiet afternoons.

“How many times?” he asked.

“Twice today.”

Dawson’s eyes narrowed. “Did he threaten her?”

“Not directly,” I said. “But it’s… off.”

Dawson stood, movement fluid despite his recent surgery, and I had to fight the reflex to tell him to sit down.

“I’ll talk to him,” he said.

“No,” I snapped.

His gaze flicked to mine, surprise flashing.

“You can’t go starting fights,” I said, forcing myself to breathe. “You’re healing.”

Dawson’s voice dropped. “I’m not starting anything. I’m ending it.”

I felt my heart stumble.

This was the part of Dawson that scared me, not because he was cruel, but because he was capable. Because if he decided something was a threat, he would handle it with the calm finality of a man trained to.

And I didn’t want Liberty’s chaotic dating life to become Dawson’s reason to bleed again.

“You need to let the police handle it,” I said.

Dawson’s mouth tightened. “Police handle things after they happen.”

I stared at him, anger and fear tangling in my chest. “And you handle things by getting stabbed? Shot? Broken?”

His eyes held mine, and something dark flickered there, not anger, but memory.

“We’ll keep her safe,” I said, voice softer. “But not like that. Not by you going back into violence the moment you’re scared.”

Dawson’s gaze dropped for a beat, then lifted again. “I’m always scared, Mia.”

The confession hit like a blow.

I swallowed hard. “Then let’s not feed it.”

He stared at me for a long moment, then nodded once, sharp, controlled. “Okay.”

The word sounded like agreement, but the tension in his shoulders didn’t fully leave.

Outside, the light was thinning. The world turning blue at the edges.

Dawson glanced toward the window, and I watched something shift in him as the day began to die.

Like night was a thing that always came to collect its debt.

---

By eight, I should’ve gone home.

By nine, I told myself I would.

By ten, the idea of leaving had turned into something that tightened my throat.

Dawson hadn’t asked me to stay again.

He didn’t need to.

He moved through his house like he was trying to settle in, but every sound, every creak of the floor, every distant car outside, seemed to pull his attention taut.

At one point he stood in the kitchen, staring at the sink as if it were a puzzle he didn’t know how to solve.

“You hungry?” I asked softly.

He blinked, like he’d forgotten hunger existed. “Not really.”

“You need food,” I said.

His mouth twitched faintly. “Bossy.”

“Correct,” I replied, and the familiar banter felt like a small bridge between the boy I’d known and the man he’d become.

I found a box of pasta in his pantry and a jar of sauce that had probably been sitting there since he’d bought the house. I cooked like I was in someone else’s skin, quietly, carefully, trying not to intrude.

Dawson watched from the doorway, arms folded, expression unreadable.

“You cook?” he asked, voice low.

“I can,” I said. “I don’t, often.”

“Why not?”

I shrugged. “Hospital food. Takeout. And… it’s just me.”

Dawson’s eyes held mine for a beat. “Just you,” he echoed, as if the phrase carried more weight than it should.

We ate at his table in near silence.

The food was simple, but warmth spread through my chest anyway, because cooking for someone felt like an intimacy I hadn’t practiced in years.

After dinner, he washed the dishes with careful, controlled movements. I tried to help, but he shook his head.

“No,” he said. “You already did enough.”

I didn’t argue, though something in me wanted to. Because the truth was: I wasn’t sure what “enough” meant with him.

At 11:17 p.m., a sharp sound cracked the quiet, Dawson’s phone buzzing against the counter.

His whole body jolted.

The reaction was instant and violent in its intensity. His shoulders rose, his hands clenched, his eyes went distant for half a second as if the sound had pulled him somewhere else.

Then he snatched the phone and stared at it.

A name flashed on the screen.

UNKNOWN NUMBER

Dawson didn’t answer. He let it buzz until it stopped.

Then it buzzed again.

And again.

My pulse quickened. “Do you know who that is?”

Dawson’s jaw tightened. “No.”

The buzzing stopped.

A text appeared.

Dawson’s eyes scanned it, and something in his expression hardened.

“What?” I asked, stepping closer.

He hesitated, then turned the screen toward me.

'Tell Liberty she can’t ignore me.'

My stomach dropped.

“That’s Trent,” I whispered.

Dawson’s gaze was fixed and cold. “Yeah.”

My hands went numb. “How did he get your number?”

Dawson’s mouth tightened. “Probably Liberty. Family contact. Emergency info. Or.”

“Or he found it,” I finished, voice thin.

Dawson stared at the screen like it was a target.

I reached out and touched his forearm lightly, grounding. “Don’t respond.”

His eyes flicked to mine. “I wasn’t going to.”

But the fury in him was a living thing. I could feel it in the air, hot and contained.

“Block it,” I said.

He did.

Then he stared at the dark screen as if he expected it to light up again through sheer will.

“Liberty needs to know,” I said.

Dawson nodded once. “You call her.”

I dialled Liberty, heart thudding.

She answered on the second ring, voice breathless. “Mia?”

“Trent texted Dawson,” I said immediately.

Silence.

Then Liberty swore softly. “How?”

“He said, ‘Tell Liberty she can’t ignore me,’” I repeated, my voice tight.

Liberty’s laugh was sharp and brittle. “Okay. That’s… not cute.”

“Liberty,” I said, forcing calm, “this is not normal. I need you to take it seriously.”

“I am,” she said quickly. “I am. I swear.”

“Block him,” I said.

“I did. He keeps changing numbers.”

Dawson’s face went hard at that.

“Stay with Marisol tonight,” I said. “Or come here.”

Liberty paused. “To Dawson’s?”

“Yes,” I said, and the word tasted complicated.

Liberty’s voice softened. “Mia… are you okay?”

I glanced at Dawson. His gaze was fixed on nothing, his body too still.

“I’m fine,” I lied, because it was my turn now.

Liberty exhaled. “Okay. I’ll stay with Marisol. Doors locked. Alarm on.”

“Good,” I said. “And tomorrow we file a report.”

Liberty went quiet, then murmured, “Okay.”

When I hung up, the house felt colder.

Dawson’s eyes were distant again, jaw clenched like he was trying to keep himself from exploding.

“Hey,” I said softly, stepping closer. “Look at me.”

His gaze snapped to mine.

For a second, I saw something raw there, not just anger, but fear. Protective fear. The kind that made men do stupid, heroic things.

“We’ll handle this,” I said, voice firm. “Together. But you need to stay healthy.”

Dawson’s throat bobbed. “I should’ve been there.”

I swallowed. “You were in an ICU bed yesterday.”

His eyes flickered like the reminder stung. “Still.”

Night pressed against the windows. The house held its breath again.

I glanced toward the hallway. “You should try to sleep.”

Dawson’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I don’t sleep.”

“I saw you sleep,” I countered gently.

He stared at me, and the meaning beneath his words rose like a tide. “Only when you’re there.”

My chest tightened so hard it hurt.

The room felt suddenly too small for the way my heart moved.

“I can stay a bit,” I said, careful. “But I’m not.”

“I know,” he cut in, voice low. “You’re not my.” He stopped himself, as if the word he almost said was too intimate to survive daylight. He swallowed. “You’re not responsible.”

But his eyes begged anyway.

I nodded once. “Okay.”

He showed me the guest room, made up, untouched. Then he lingered in the doorway like he didn’t want to leave me behind a closed door.

“You can sleep there,” he said.

“And you?” I asked.

Dawson hesitated. “I’ll be fine.”

The phrase again. The lie again.

I studied him for a moment, then made a decision my future self would probably lecture me for.

“Dawson,” I said quietly, “I’m going to sleep in your bed.”

His eyes widened a fraction, surprise, something sharper underneath.

I held up a hand before he could speak. “Not like that. Don’t, don’t make it weird.”

His mouth opened, then closed.

I continued, my cheeks warming. “You’ll sleep. I’ll sleep. That’s it.”

Dawson stared at me like he didn’t know what to do with kindness that didn’t demand anything back.

“Mia,” he said, voice rough, “you don’t have to.”

“I know,” I repeated, because apparently those were the only words that mattered tonight. “But I want to.”

The admission hung between us, trembling.

He nodded once, slow. “Okay.”

---

In his bedroom, the air smelled faintly of soap and something deeper, something like him, the human under the soldier. The bed was made tight, corners squared, as if he’d tried to discipline softness into order.

I changed in the bathroom, heart beating too fast as I pulled on an oversized T-shirt I kept in my bag for long calls. I stared at my reflection, blonde hair loose now, eyes too bright in the dim light.

This is ridiculous, I told myself.

This is kind.

This is dangerous.

When I came out, Dawson was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, hands clasped, staring at the floor as if he was waiting to be judged.

“You can change,” I said softly.

He shook his head. “I’m fine.”

I exhaled, then crawled into the bed on the far side, leaving a careful gulf between us.

He didn’t move for a long moment.

Then, with stiff reluctance, he lay down on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, body rigid as if the mattress might become a battlefield.

The silence stretched.

I stared into the dark.

Minutes passed.

Then Dawson’s voice came, frayed at the edges, barely there. “If I wake up…”

“I’ll be here,” I said, before I could talk myself out of it.

He didn’t look at me. Didn’t have to. The words landed anyway, soft as a blanket, heavy as a promise.

His breath caught once, sharp and small, like his ribs didn’t trust the air.

And then the slow surrender began.

Not the dramatic kind, no sudden collapse, no clean relief. Just inch by inch, the way a storm backs away from shore. His shoulders sank a fraction. The rigid line of his jaw loosened, as if his body remembered how to unclench. His eyelids fluttered, fought, then drifted.

His breathing stretched out, deeper each time, the space between inhales growing wider, like he was learning the shape of rest again.

I stayed still beside him, afraid that even a sigh could startle him back into being guarded.

For a few minutes, it worked.

He slept.

Not perfectly. Not peacefully. But he slept.

And I lay there in the dark with my heart too loud in my chest, realizing something I’d refused to name for eight years: my crush hadn’t survived because it was childish.

It had survived because it was real.

Dawson’s body jolted, just a twitch at first, a tremor in his shoulder like something ugly had brushed its fingers along the edge of his dream. His brow pulled tight. His mouth moved, soundless, as if he was trying to speak through water.

Another hitch of breath. A subtle shake, traveling through him like cold.

A nightmare.

Instinct took over before thought could make it complicated. I shifted closer and lifted my hand, careful, like approaching a skittish animal and set my fingertips lightly on his arm.

Barely pressure. Just contact.

A tether.

His skin was warm under my touch, but the muscle beneath it was coiled, braced for impact. I stroked once, slow and steady, as if I could smooth the fear right out of him.

“It’s okay,” I whispered, not sure if he could hear me, not sure if it mattered. “You’re here.”

His breathing stumbled, then steadied. Again, it deepened, the panic ebbing as if my hand had found the switch that turned the dark down.

For a moment, it worked.

And then the nightmare surged again, fiercer, his body twisting, a sharp exhale tearing out of him like he’d been hit.

Before I could pull my hand back, he rolled toward me.

Fast.

Blind.

His arm hooked around my waist with unthinking urgency, dragging me in like he was drowning and my body was the surface. My breath left me in a quiet rush as his forehead pressed against my shoulder, his grip tightening until it bordered on desperate.

He wasn’t fully awake.

He didn’t ask.

He just…claimed the closeness like his body had decided it needed it more than pride, more than distance, more than whatever rules he’d been living by.

I froze for half a beat, surprised by the heat of him, the weight, the intimacy of being pulled into someone’s survival.

Then I let myself soften into it.

I kept my hand on his arm, not stroking now, just steady, anchoring him while his breath slowly found its rhythm again. His grip didn’t loosen, but it changed. The panic in it melted into something quieter. Protective. Almost tender.

He fell back under, still holding on.

And in the hush of the room, with Dawson’s heartbeat thudding against my ribs, I understood in the quietest, saddest way that his body remembered safety in my presence, even if his mind didn’t know how to ask for it without shame.

Sometime after midnight, my phone buzzed.

The sound sliced through the dark like a blade.

I stiffened in Dawson’s arms, careful not to jolt him, and fumbled the screen just enough to see the notification.

A text.

From an unknown number.

My stomach tightened before I even read it, like my body recognized danger faster than my eyes could.

Stop getting in the way.

My blood went cold.

The room suddenly felt…not empty. Not private. Like the darkness had eyes.

Dawson slept against me, finally, mercifully, his hold still firm, as if some part of him knew the world wasn’t safe even when he couldn’t name why.

I didn’t reply.

I didn’t move.

I just stared at the message until the letters blurred, listening to Dawson breathe and wondering how long peace ever lasted before it shattered.

Trent thought I was Liberty.

Or he didn’t care which of us he threatened, as long as someone shook.

Either way, the danger had found me.

And I lay there in the dark, trapped between Dawson’s warmth and that single, icy sentence, knowing I’d become a target without ever stepping fully into the fight.