🩷 GET AWAY🩷

Chapter Four

I closed the laptop, the screen fading to black as if it, too, wanted to shut down from everything it had just shown me.

Don’t fall for him.

Jordan’s words shouldn’t have stung. They were truth wrapped in warning, and I’d heard them before—in my own voice, echoing off the walls of my mind during sleepless nights. But something about her saying it out loud made it real in a way I couldn’t unhear.

I pushed back from the kitchen table, the chair scraping the floor like it was trying to stop me from standing. My legs felt too light, like I’d forgotten how to hold my own weight. I crossed to the hallway mirror, not because I cared how I looked but because I needed to see the woman living in my skin.

She looked… fine.

Too fine.

Skin unblemished, lips tinted with gloss, hair pulled into a soft braid over one shoulder. To anyone else, I was the picture of a woman loved well.

But behind my eyes? I was unraveling.

How do you grieve a man who hurt you—and fear the one wearing his face?

The sound of the garage door opening snapped me back to the present. I moved quickly, shutting the laptop and sliding the flash drive behind the vase on the entry table. I straightened my blouse, checked my expression, and forced a breath into my lungs.

By the time he walked through the door, I was composed.

He held up a brown paper bag, his smile crooked and easy. “Changed my mind,” he said, as if we were two ordinary people on an ordinary night. “Thought we could eat in.”

“You just left,” I said, arms folded as I leaned against the counter.

“Missed you.”

I hated how easily that line rolled off his tongue. Even more, I hated the flutter it stirred in my stomach.

He unpacked two takeout containers, the smell of garlic and fresh herbs blooming through the kitchen. “Chicken parm,” he said. “Extra breadsticks.”

“You remembered.”

He looked up, smile softening. “I remember everything.”

It was the kind of thing Liam would’ve said before the accident, if he’d ever bothered to care. But this man said it with ease, like he’d been paying attention for years.

I didn’t know whether to run or reach for him.

As he set the table, he slid a folded brochure from his back pocket and placed it in front of me. “Also, about the trip... I went ahead and booked it. Hope that’s okay.”

I opened the tri-fold slowly, revealing a scenic photo of a cabin tucked into a snowy forest. Clean lines, mountain views, and not a soul for miles.

He watched me with careful eyes. “It’s not much, but I thought—privacy, quiet, something good.”

“It’s beautiful,” I said, and meant it. But my heart wasn’t reacting to the cabin. It was reacting to the way he looked at me—as if I was something worth creating peace for.

And yet... Jordan’s warning echoed like a ghost between us.

Later that night, I slipped out of the house with a pitcher of water and crossed the street. Mrs. Halvorsen’s porch light flickered weakly above her hanging baskets. The flowers were wilting again.

She opened the door before I knocked.

“Celeste,” she said, eyes sharp. “You look thin.”

“I’m fine.”

She studied me like she didn’t believe a word. “You never were a good liar.”

I poured water into her planters. The soil drank it greedily.

“You’re going somewhere.”

I nodded. “Just a weekend away.”

Her tone shifted. “With your husband?”

I hesitated. Then nodded again.

She stepped out in her robe, arms folded tight. “I heard the fights. Back then. The crying. Then silence.”

I didn’t speak.

She touched my arm. “You were afraid of him. And now you’re not. That frightens me more than the bruises.”

My throat tightened.

“I stayed too long,” she said, eyes distant. “Kept thinking he’d change. That love could fix a man bent on destruction. But the thing about men like that is—they don’t just bend you. They remake you into someone you don’t recognize.”

I looked away, jaw clenched.

“I don’t know who that man is in your house now,” she whispered. “But be careful. A mask is still a lie.”

The cabin trip started at dawn. We drove in silence for a while, winding through backroads and tree-lined stretches of grey. Morning light fractured across the windshield, turning the fog into glowing ribbons.

He had one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing mine on the console. His touch felt casual, but my body cataloged every second like evidence.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“Yeah.”

“You’re quiet.”

“You say that like I’m not always.”

He smiled, eyes flicking to mine. “You’re quieter than usual. That’s different.”

I looked away. “There’s a lot on my mind.”

He nodded, but said nothing.

The car filled with the low hum of jazz, the kind I used to find pretentious but now felt like safety.

“You know,” he said, “you haven’t asked me why I brought you here.”

“I figured it was to lower my guard.”

His mouth quirked. “If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t have waited this long.”

“That’s not comforting.”

He reached over, lacing his fingers with mine.

“You scare me,” I whispered before I could stop myself.

He didn’t let go. “Then let me un-scare you.”

The cabin appeared like a secret tucked into the woods—warm-toned cedar and stone, its porch dusted with a recent layer of snow. Pines surrounded it like sentries. Isolation never looked so charming.

He got out first, grabbed our bags, and opened the door for me.

Inside was all warm wood, soft throws, and an oversized hearth already stacked with logs. It smelled like cedar and something faintly sweet—like vanilla and clove.

“This place is beautiful,” I said, turning in a slow circle.

“One bed,” he said, watching me.

Of course.

“No cell service,” I added.

“Just us.”

He moved to the fireplace, crouched low, and lit the fire. I stood a few feet away, arms crossed.

“You’re always watching me,” I said.

“Because I don’t want to miss anything.”

“Why?”

He looked back at me, firelight flickering across his face. “Because I love you.”

My chest pulled tight.

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“Because it’s true.”

“You didn’t even know me before.”

“I know you now.”

His words were quiet, unflinching. “I’ve seen how strong you are. How gentle. How you keep your pain like it’s sacred. I see you.”

My breath caught.

He stood and walked toward me slowly, stopping just inches away. “You don’t have to believe me tonight. Or tomorrow. But I meant it when I said this weekend was for you.”

My heart pounded loud in my ears.

“I want to give you peace,” he whispered.

“Even if you’re the one who came to destroy it?”

He didn’t flinch. “Even then.”

The silence stretched between us—thick, humming with everything unsaid.

I didn’t move.

Neither did he.

But his hands were warm when they reached up to cup my face. And when I didn’t pull away, he pressed his lips to my forehead.

Slow. Intentional.

Not claiming. Just... holding space.

And God help me, I let him.