Liberty chose a baking show the way she chose men: loudly, impulsively, with unearned confidence.“This one,” she declared, remote pointed like a wand. “It’s the holiday episode. People cry over ganache. It’s art.”Dawson sat in the armchair, posture straight, hands clasped, watching the TV like it might attack him if he blinked. He’d changed into sweatpants and a dark T shirt, but the softness of the clothing didn’t soften the vigilance in his bones.I sat on the couch beside Liberty, close enough to feel her warmth, but far enough that I could pretend my life wasn’t shifting under my feet.The house held three of us now, three heartbeats, three sets of breath, and it felt… different. Not safe, exactly, not yet. But less hollow. Less like a place that only knew how to wait.Liberty shoved a bowl of popcorn into my lap. “Eat.”“I ate dinner,” I protested weakly.“You ate trauma,” she corrected. “Now eat salt.”D
Last Updated : 2025-12-24 Read more