Chapter 6
Kevin
I'm three days into living with Steph, and I'm pretty sure this is what purgatory feels like.
Not hell—because being close to her, making her coffee in the morning, hearing her laugh at something stupid I say, watching her curl up on the couch in those sleep shorts that are destroying my self-control—none of that is hell.
But it's not heaven either. Because at the end of every day, I walk away. I close her bedroom door and take the couch and lie there in the dark, listening to her breath through the thin walls, knowing she's ten feet away and off-limits.
So yeah. Purgatory.
I'm folding the blanket she gave me—neatly, because old habits die hard—when my phone rings. Rachel's name lights up the screen, and I brace myself.
"Hey, Sis."
"So," her voice is warm, knowing. "You've been living with her for three days now."
I sink onto the couch. Of course she knows. This is Evergreen Lakes. "Who told you?"
"Lottie saw your truck outside Steph's apartment at six-thirty in the morning. Then Belinda confirmed you've been driving her to and from work. Then Mrs. Paisley saw you two at the Sip N’ Sit looking very..." She pauses, and I hear the smile in her voice. "Domestic."
"We're just—"
"Kevin." She cuts me off. "I won two hundred dollars betting on you two. And I've been watching this slow burn for months. I know what I'm seeing."
The guilt settles heavy in my chest. "Rachel—"
"I'm not calling to tease you." Her voice softens.
"I'm calling because I'm proud of you. You've been so patient with her.
So steady. I know it's been hard watching her heal and not being able to tell her how you felt, but you did it.
You waited. And now you get to be with her, and I just..
." She pauses, and I hear the emotion crack through.
"I'm so proud of you, big brother. You deserve this. You deserve to be happy. Mom and Dad would’ve been thrilled about this.
" Her voice softens when she mentions our deceased parents.
It’s hard because they were a love story for the ages, and I was always skeptical about how they used to always tell us once we met our person we’d fall instantly.
It happened to Rachel, but I still didn’t believe it until Steph opened her door and I set eyes on her for the first time. Then I understood.
My throat closes up. Because she's talking about something that isn't real. Thai relationship. Something I'm faking. And she's genuinely happy for me; it feels like a knife between my ribs.
"Thanks, Rach," I manage.
"And Steph—God, Kevin, the way she looks at you? Like she's believing good things can happen again? That's all you. That's the man you are."
I close my eyes. Maybe that part isn't a lie. Maybe Steph is starting to believe. Maybe the way she's been laughing more, relaxing into my touch, falling asleep against me on the couch—maybe that means something.
Or maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see.
"I need to ask you something," Rachel says, her tone shifting. "And I want you to be honest with me."
My stomach tightens. "Okay."
"I've seen the way you look at her—I know how you feel. But Steph... she's been through so much. If this is you being protective and she's just going along with it because she feels safe with you, I need you to be careful. I love you both, and I don't want to see either of you get hurt."
The question lands like a punch.
Because that's what this is, isn't it? Me being protective. Steph's going along with it because it makes her feel safe. A fake relationship that I'm desperately hoping will turn real.
"I would never hurt her," I say, and that much is true. "Never."
"I know you wouldn't. Not on purpose." Rachel's quiet for a moment. "Just... make sure you two are on the same page, okay? Communication. That's all I'm saying."
"Yeah," I say. "I will."
After we hang up, I sit there with the phone in my hand, staring at nothing.
Rachel's right. Steph and I need to talk about what this is and where it's going because there is so much more here.
But I'm terrified of that conversation. What if she says it's all fake? What if she tells me she's just playing along until Elliott is dealt with, and then we go back to being friends?
What if I've been reading this all wrong, and she doesn't feel what I feel?
I swallow hard and shove the phone into my pocket.
Not today. I'm not ready for that conversation today.
***
"We need groceries," Steph announces later that morning, appearing in the kitchen with wet hair and wearing jeans that should be illegal. "And by 'we,' I mean me, but you're coming because apparently you've appointed yourself my bodyguard."
I lean against the counter, coffee in hand. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It's not a bad thing." She grabs her own mug, adding enough sugar to give a normal person a cavity. "It's just... you don't have to go grocery shopping with me, Kevin. I can handle the produce section alone."
"Noted. I'm still coming."
She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. "Fine. But if you judge my cereal choices, I'm evicting you."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
Twenty minutes later, we're at the grocery store, and I'm realizing that running errands with Steph in Evergreen Lakes is a full-contact sport.
We make it exactly three aisles before we run into Mrs. Emerson from the library.
"Steph! Kevin!" She beams at us, a cart full of what looks like supplies for a church bake sale. "How are you two lovebirds doing?"
"Great," Steph says, her smile a little strained.
Mrs. Emerson's gaze drops to the space between us—specifically, the lack of physical contact—and I see the exact moment she clocks it as weird. Because if we're dating, why aren't we touching?
I slide my arm around Steph's waist, pulling her against my side. She stiffens for half a second, then relaxes into me with a naturalness that makes my heart skip.
"Still getting used to all the attention," I say. "You know how it is."
"Oh, of course!" Mrs. Emerson laughs. "Well, you two make a lovely couple. Simply lovely."
When she moves on, Steph looks up at me. "Smooth."
"Just playing the part." But I don't move my arm, and she doesn't pull away.
We make it through produce, dairy, and frozen foods before we encounter Tony from the bar.
"Dawes! My man!" He claps me on the shoulder with enough force to make me wince. "Treating our girl right?"
"Doing my best," I say.
"Good, good. So, when's the wedding? June? July? I'm betting on July. Lake thing or mountain thing?"
Steph chokes on air. "Wedding?"
"Well, yeah." Tony looks confused. "You two have been circling each other for months. Now that you're together, you might as well lock it down, right?"
"We're taking it slow," I interrupt, squeezing Steph's waist. "No need to rush."
"Slow. Right," Tony nods sagely. "Smart. Build that foundation. I respect it."
When he wanders off, Steph buries her face in my shoulder. "I'm going to die. Actually die."
"You're fine."
"He asked about the wedding, Kevin."
"Small-town logic." I can't help but smile at how flustered she is. "We're dating, therefore we must be planning the rest of our lives."
"This is insane."
"This is Evergreen Lakes."
By the time we make it to checkout, we've been congratulated six more times, asked about our future plans twice, and informed by the cashier that we're "the cutest couple she's seen all week."
In the parking lot, loading groceries into my truck, Steph leans against the tailgate and laughs. Actually laughs, full and genuine, as if the absurdity of the morning had caught up with her.
"A wedding," she says, shaking her head. "Tony wants to know about our wedding."
"To be fair, he probably has a betting pool on that too."
She laughs again, and the sound does something warm and dangerous in my chest.
This is what I wanted to see—Steph relaxed, happy, not looking over her shoulder every five seconds. And if playing her boyfriend in public is what it takes, I'll do it for as long as she needs.
Even if it kills me.
My phone rings while we're putting groceries away. Martinez.
"Dawes."
"Got an update for you," he says, voice grim. "Elliott's lawyer is making noise about a lawsuit. False arrest, excessive force, the usual bullshit."
I step into the living room, lowering my voice so Steph doesn't hear. "How serious?"
"Serious enough that the chief wants a meeting. Elliott's family has money and connections. They're pushing back hard."
Anger flares hot and fast. "He grabbed her. I witnessed it."
"I know. And your statement is solid. But these guys play dirty, and they've got resources." Martinez pauses. "Watch your back, Dawes. And keep an eye on Steph. Guys like Elliott don't like losing."
After we hang up, I stand there for a minute, staring at nothing.
Elliott is out on bail, threatening lawsuits, and pissed as hell that his harassment charge stuck. The restraining order is still in place, but that's just a piece of paper. It won't stop him if he decides to escalate.
I pull up the group chat with Troy, Ace, and Levi.
Me: Need eyes on The Lucky Tap tonight. Elliott's making noise. Steff is off so I won’t be there, but I want to know if he’s sniffing around.
Troy: On it. I'll be there. Ainsley’s working.
Ace: Same.
Levi: I'll swing by after I finish up my last tour.
Then I text Simon, the bar owner.
Me: Can we talk about security at the bar? I want to make sure Steph's covered.
Simon: Absolutely. I’ll call you tomorrow morning.
I shoot a message to the patrol group chat.
Me: If you're in the area of 142 Oak Street, extra patrols are appreciated. Domestic situation, subject out on bail.
Responses come in immediately—affirmatives, offers to help, confirmation that they'll keep an eye out.
This is what I do. Protect and serve. Keep people safe.
But this isn't just anyone.
This is Steph.
And I will burn the world down before I let Elliott touch her again.
That night, we're on her couch watching some crime procedural that I insist is "so inaccurate it's funny.
" Her comments to defend the artistic display are better than the show—pointing out everything they get wrong about police work is crucial for a good viewing appreciation, but has me laughing at the dramatic music cues.
At some point, her feet end up in my lap. I don't remember how it happened—just that one minute we were sitting on opposite ends of the couch, and the next she'd shifted, tucking her legs under her, and her feet landed against my thigh.
I should say something. Move them. Acknowledge the boundary we're crossing.
Instead, I rest my hand on her ankle, thumb tracing absent patterns against her skin.
She doesn't pull away.
An hour later, her head tips sideways onto my shoulder, and her breathing evens out.
She's asleep.
I stay very still, hyperaware of every point of contact between us. Her head on my shoulder, her feet in my lap, the soft weight of her against my side.
This is dangerous. This feeling of rightness. On how she's supposed to be here. This is where she belongs.
But I can't bring myself to move.
I sit for another twenty minutes, watching her sleep, memorizing the peaceful expression on her face.
When my leg goes numb and the credits roll on the third episode, I carefully extract myself and scoop her into my arms.
She makes a soft sound but doesn't wake, just burrows closer to my chest.
I carry her to the bedroom, nudging the door open with my shoulder. The room smells like her—something floral and clean. I set her on the bed, pulling the blanket up over her.
For one reckless moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to stay. To climb in beside her, pull her close, fall asleep with her in my arms.
Instead, I brush a strand of hair off her face and force myself to step back.
"Goodnight, Gorgeous," I murmur and kiss her forehead.
Then I walk out and close the door behind me.
I lie on the couch in the dark, staring at the ceiling, and tell myself the same thing I've been telling myself for three days.
Just a little longer.
Just be patient a little longer.
And maybe she'll decide she wants this to be real.