Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Kayla
Idon’t sleep. Sawyer eventually does.
After the whiskey, the long conversation, and the quiet that followed, his breathing finally settles beside me. One arm draped loosely across my waist, like he’s making sure I don’t disappear in the middle of the night.
For a long time, I just lie here, staring at the ceiling, thinking about everything he told me.
About the way his voice went completely flat when he talked about standing at his uncle’s funeral, listening to everyone praise a man he hated.
The thought lingers heavier than I want it to. The thing that won’t leave my mind isn’t the violence.
It’s the control.
The way Sawyer built an entire life around never letting anyone see weakness again. Never needing anyone.
Except … he trusted me with it tonight. The realization stays with me long after the conversation ended.
I slowly turn my head on the pillow.
Sawyer is still asleep. The tension that usually sits in his face is gone for once.
No tension pulling at his expression. Just quiet, peaceful.
Carefully, I slide out from under his arm. He stirs slightly, his hand tightening instinctively on the sheets where I was lying, but he doesn’t wake.
I grab my laptop from the kitchen island and curl up on the couch, wrapping one of Sawyer’s hoodies around myself.
The apartment is silent while the city outside is still dark.
My document is already open. The blank page waits quietly at the bottom of the document.
For weeks, that stupid little line mocked me. Every time I tried to write, the hero in my book felt … wrong. Now I understand why.
I didn’t know him yet.
I stare at the keys for a second before I finally start typing.
The first scene pours out before I can second-guess it.
The hero isn’t the confident billionaire I originally imagined. He’s guarded … careful. A man who built walls around himself so thick that no one could see the damage underneath.
My chest tightens slightly as I type. Now the anger and control make sense.
I type faster.
The heroine in the scene notices something first. A reaction that doesn’t match the man everyone else sees. She asks questions and he shuts down. But she refuses to walk away.
The words keep coming. Hours pass without me realizing it.
At some point, the sky outside the windows begins to lighten. Sawyer’s bedroom door opens behind me. I barely notice until his voice drifts across the room.
“Did you sleep at all?”
I glance up. He’s leaning against the wall at the end of the hallway, hair still damp from the shower, tie hanging loosely around his neck.
“Working,” I say.
His eyes flick to the laptop. “You’ve been here all night.”
“Maybe.”
He walks over slowly and sets a mug of coffee beside me. I didn’t even notice him make it.
“You’re staring at the screen like it owes you money.”
I smile faintly. “I think I finally figured him out.”
Sawyer’s brow lifts slightly. “The hero?”
“Yeah.”
He studies my face for a second, then nods once. “Good.”
That’s all he says.
No questions or curiosity. Just quiet support. He presses a brief kiss to the top of my head before heading toward the door.
“I’ll see you tonight.”
“Mmhmm.”
The door closes behind him, and I go right back to typing.
For the first time since this story started … I finally know exactly who the hero is.
* * *
The next few days blur together.
Not in a bad way … more like the kind of tunnel vision that only happens when something finally clicks.
The story is all I can think about. Morning turns into afternoon, and afternoon turns into night. Sometimes, I realize hours have passed because Sawyer appears beside me with a plate of food.
“Eat,” he says the first time, sliding a sandwich across the island.
“I will.”
“You said that four hours ago.”
I blink up at him. “Did I?”
He just shakes his head, but the corner of his mouth lifts slightly before he walks away.
The kitchen island becomes my command center. Laptop, coffee mug, and my notebook full of messy scribbles.
By the third day, Sawyer stops asking how long I’ve been writing.
He just refills my coffee and brings takeout. Occasionally steals my laptop long enough to force me to stretch my legs.
“Your back is going to lock permanently,” he says one night, tugging the computer away from me.
“Give it back.”
“Walk first.”
“You’re very bossy.”
“You’re very stubborn.”
I groan dramatically but stand up anyway.
Five minutes later, I’m right back in the chair, typing again.
The hero in the story feels alive now. A man who built his entire life around never needing anyone. Because once, someone had made sure he learned how dangerous that was.
The details in the book are different.
From the hero’s childhood to the circumstances as an adult. But the emotions?
Those stay exactly the same.
The fear, resilience, and strength it takes to survive something terrible and still build a life afterward.
Every time I get stuck on a scene, I think about Sawyer.
About the way he carries himself with quiet authority. His constant control. The way his entire body goes still when someone gets too close to the scars on his back.
And suddenly, the words come again.
Scene after scene falls into place.
The hero fighting his instincts. The heroine refusing to give up on him. The moment he finally realizes that letting someone love him might be the bravest thing he’s ever done.
By the end of the week, the story is almost finished. Only the final chapter remains.
I sit alone at the island late one night, staring at the screen.
The apartment is quiet. Sawyer is already asleep down the hall.
The cursor blinks patiently … waiting.
The final scene plays out in my head like a movie.
The hero standing in front of the woman he loves. Terrified. Not of losing control, but of finally admitting he needs someone.
My fingers hover over the keyboard for a second.
When they start moving again, the words pour out faster than I can think about them.
The hero chooses love.
Not because it’s easy, but because it’s terrifying.
Because for the first time in his life, he trusts someone enough to risk everything.
My chest tightens as I type the final line.
The chapter is done.
The book is done.
I lean back in the chair and stare at the screen.
For a moment, I don’t move. I just sit there, letting the reality settle in.
A slow smile spreads across my face.
“Holy shit,” I whisper.
I scroll back through the last few chapters.
Fixing small things. Tightening a line here or adjusting dialogue.
Overall, it’s solid. More than solid. It’s the best thing I’ve ever written.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I open my email.
New message.
My editor’s name fills the address line automatically.
Hey!
Just finished the manuscript and sending it over. This one fought me for a while, but I think it finally came together.
Can’t wait to hear your thoughts.
—Kayla
I attach the file.
Hover over the Send button.
My heart pounds a little faster because sending a manuscript always feels like jumping off a cliff—I hope I land somewhere good.
I take a breath, then click Send.
The email disappears, and just like that, the story is out in the world.
I close the laptop slowly and glance toward the hallway.
Toward Sawyer’s room.
A small smile tugs at my lips. He has no idea what kind of person he is.
The man I thought I knew when I first started living here is not the man I’ve come to love.
This man is brave, strong, and caring. I just hope, one day, he can see everything I see. I hope he can let the world see the man that he hides.