Chapter 25 - Grace
Grace
Grace woke to quiet.
For a few seconds, she didn’t move.
The ceiling above her was unfamiliar. The air smelled different too—clean, faintly woody, something like coffee and soap.
Luke’s house.
Grace lay there, wrapped in his blankets. She felt… safe. No danger pressing at the edges of her thoughts.
Just quiet.
She turned her head slightly. The guest room was spare and neat. Her bag sat where she’d left it. Shoes tucked neatly beside it.
She pushed herself up slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed, feet finding cool carpet. For a moment, she simply breathed—testing the feeling of being here, in his space, under his roof.
It was strange. Intimate in a way that had nothing to do with bodies or beds.
She’d known the weight of him in the dark, the feel of him pushing inside her. But she’d never known this—the way his house held light in the mornings.
Noises drifted faintly from downstairs.
Luke. Making coffee. Checking locks. Keeping her safe.
She crossed to the door, opening it just enough to peer into the hallway.
The smell of coffee was stronger outside the bedroom.
Grace rested her forehead briefly against the doorframe and closed her eyes.
Luke hadn’t suddenly become the man who wanted her.
She couldn’t afford to forget that.
The bathroom was as impersonal as the guest room. White tile. Gray towels.
Grace turned on the shower and waited for the water to heat.
Steam began to fill the space, softening the sharp edges of everything.
She stripped and stepped under the spray, closing her eyes as hot water hit her shoulders.
For a moment—just a moment—she let herself imagine it differently.
Waking up in his bed instead of the guest room. His arm heavy around her waist. Morning light catching in his hair. The lazy, unhurried intimacy of a day with nowhere to be.
Coffee in his kitchen. Her mug next to his. Toast burning because they'd gotten distracted.
A place in his life.
Grace opened her eyes and reached for the shampoo.
That was the last time she would let herself imagine what could have been with Luke Bennett.
She’d asked. And he’d answered.
When she finally emerged from the bathroom—dressed, hair damp—her armor was back in place.
Luke was in the kitchen. He was standing at the counter in jeans and a t-shirt, hair still damp from his own shower, pouring coffee into two mugs.
Grace stopped in the doorway.
Luke turned, and their eyes met.
"Morning," he said quietly.
"Morning.”
He slid the mug across the counter toward her.
Grace wrapped both hands around it and took a sip.
Perfect.
Of course it was.
"Thank you," she said.
Luke nodded. “You should eat something. I can do eggs. Or just toast.”
“I’m not that hungry,” she admitted.
He frowned and reached for the bread anyway, sliding two slices into the toaster. “Toast,” he said. “You can’t run on coffee.”
The quiet certainty in his voice did something strange to her chest.
The toaster clicked down. The small domestic sound filled the silence.
She leaned back against the counter, watching him move around his kitchen like he belonged there. Like there was space for someone else in it.
The toast popped up. He buttered both slices without asking, then hesitated—glanced at her.
“Jam?” he asked.
She almost laughed. “Plain’s fine.”
He set a plate in front of her.
Silence settled between them—not hostile, just careful. Like they were both afraid of saying the wrong thing.
Grace took another sip of coffee and looked around the kitchen properly.
Clean counters. No dishes in the sink. A single coffee maker and a toaster. The refrigerator had nothing on it—no magnets, no photos, no grocery lists.
It looked like a show home.
Like no one actually lived here.
"Your house is nice," Grace said, taking a bite of the toast.
She looked at him. At the tension in his shoulders. The way his fingers tapped against his mug like he wanted to say something but didn't know how.
Luke Bennett—unshakeable, confident Luke Bennett—looked nervous.
"I'm glad you're here," Luke said at last. "I know this isn't—But I'm glad you're here.”
She wanted to say something cutting. Something that would remind them both that he'd lost the right to be glad about anything involving her.
But she was tired.
And his coffee was perfect.
She took another bite instead of asking the question sitting sharp and dangerous in her throat:
Wasn't I good enough for this before?
He glanced at the clock. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll be ready to drive you.”
It took her a second to understand.
“Luke,” she said carefully, “I usually walk.”
He paused. Just a fraction. “Right. I know. But until you’re safe, I’ll be driving you.”
She stared at him.
The thought hadn’t even occurred to her. Her house was five blocks from the school. Walking was habit. Routine. Something she’d never had to think about.
Being here, on this side of town, changed the math.
“You don’t have to—”
“I do,” he said simply. Grace hesitated.
“And after school,” he added. “I’ll pick you up.”
Her breath caught.
“Luke,” she said, “you can’t just—”
He looked at her. “Until this is done,” he said, softer now, “you’re not walking alone.”
Grace swallowed. She nodded once.
“Okay,” she said.
Grace stepped out of the police cruiser and onto the curb in front of the school.
She shut door and it closed with a solid, unmistakable thunk. For a brief, ridiculous second she wished Luke had dropped her off around the corner instead.
Too late now.
Her last name meant something in this town.
It meant petty theft and broken windows and juvenile records.
It meant her father in prison, a fixture of the state system, his name still muttered whenever something went missing.
It meant her mother drifting from state to state, never staying anywhere long enough for the credit card bills to catch up with her.
Hart.
A shorthand for trouble.
The cruiser pulled away, tires crunching softly over gravel, and Grace adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder and turned toward the front doors.
She could feel the looks, the subtle pauses, half-glances held a second too long.
Police cruiser. Grace Hart.
Of course.
Grace squared her shoulders and walked inside.
The hallway buzzed with early-morning noise but the teachers’ lounge was quieter.
Grace could guess what they were thinking.
Of course she came to work in a police car. She’s a Hart. There’s always something.
She’d grown up fluent at reading judgmental tones of voice. The polite curiosity that wasn’t really polite at all. The way people held themselves back just slightly, like trouble was contagious.
She braced herself as she pushed open the teachers' lounge door.
"Grace!" Mrs. Ellery was up from her chair the moment Grace walked into the lounge. "We saw the police car. Are you alright?"
She’d been expecting judgment, not worry.
Mrs. Talbot set down her coffee mug with a sharp clink. "What happened?"
"I'm fine. There was... someone outside my house last night. I called 911."
Mrs. Ellery's hand flew to her chest. "Oh my God. Were you hurt?"
"I'm okay. Just shaken."
"You should've called me," Mrs. Talbot said firmly. "You could've stayed at my place."
"Or mine," Mrs. Ellery added. "Grace, you shouldn't have been alone."
Mrs. Talbot looked like she wanted to personally hunt down whoever had scared Grace. "What did the police say?"
Grace hesitated. "They're... looking into it."
"I'm calling my nephew," Mrs. Talbot said immediately. "If Crystal Lake PD isn't—"
"It's fine," Grace said quickly. "Really. Luke—uh—Officer Bennett is on top of it.”
Mrs. Ellery touched her arm gently. "You know if you need anything—anything at all—we're here. Right?"
Grace's throat felt tight. "Thank you. That means a lot.”
She didn’t explain about Eli. About threats that had nothing to do with her.
She didn’t need to justify herself. These women were her colleagues, and her friends.
“I was scared,” she admitted.
Mrs. Talbot looked distressed. “Oh, Grace!”
Here, her name didn’t come with footnotes or assumptions. It came with trust. With storytime voices and reading circles and children who thought she hung the moon simply because she showed up every day and kept her promises.
In this place, Grace Hart was exactly who she had made herself to be.