Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Dahlia
I wake up with my eyes closed. For a few precious seconds, nothing happens. Everything is fine, my past hasn’t clawed its way back into the present, and my mind hovers in that quiet space between sleep and consciousness.
I cling to that feeling, hoping it might stay. Then my brain comes back online and the events of last night trickle in.
Christian is out.
Panic settles deep in my gut, just as it did last night, but thankfully, the tears don’t follow.
Breathe. You’re okay.
I keep my eyes closed and try to ground myself by slowly taking in every sensation. The feel of the soft couch beneath me. The puffiness of my eyes. The ache in my shoulders that never seems to go away.
The presence of someone else.
My eyes snap open and I find Echo asleep on the couch across from me. He’s lying on his back with one arm tucked behind his head and the other draped across his stomach. His face is relaxed in a way I’ve never seen before, and his breathing is deep enough that I know he’s really out.
He stayed the night.
I never let anyone stay the night. It’s not a hard set rule or anything. It’s just something I don’t do.
Nights are easy to compartmentalize. Mornings aren’t. Mornings come with expectations and conversations that assume continuity. There’s something about the daylight that makes things feel way more intimate.
I scan the space around us, taking it all in. The blanket draped over me. The empty mugs on the coffee table. The faint imprint his boots left on the doormat before he kicked them off. All proof that this isn’t a dream.
I sit there for another minute, letting the reality of the situation sink in.
There’s a killer sleeping on my couch. The same killer who’s been openly stalking me and has crossed countless boundaries since the night we met. The same killer I’ve been stupidly hooking up with, despite knowing all of that.
In my space. In my home. So why the hell is my heart pounding for an entirely different reason?
I look at Echo, unabashedly, and study everything about him.
His long dark lashes fanning across his cheeks.
His full brows framing his face perfectly.
The way his lips downturn slightly, even while sleeping, like he’s been sad his whole life.
He looks younger like this. Less guarded. Almost peaceful.
I mindlessly wonder if anyone else has ever seen him this way.
I know what he’s capable of. I’ve seen it firsthand. And yet, when I look at him, I don’t see a monster. I see a man, a beautiful one at that, both inside and out. And I don’t know what that says about me.
This is ridiculous.
Whatever my brain is doing right now needs to fucking stop.
I slide one foot off the couch, then the other, and carefully rise from the couch. The cushion creaks under my weight, and I wince.
“Bambi.” He calls out, his voice slow and sleepy.
I freeze.
Shit. Of course, he heard me. I don’t know why I thought I could slip away unnoticed when he seems incapable of missing anything, especially when it involves me.
I turn around to find Echo propped up on one elbow, rubbing his eyes like he’s trying to orient himself to the room. His hair is a mess, flattened on one side, and there’s a faint crease between his brows.
“Sorry,” I say quietly. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
I glance down at the floor, suddenly very aware of how close this moment is to becoming something I don’t know how to navigate. My teeth sink into my lower lip.
He watches me for a minute, then asks. “You okay?”
It’s a simple question. There’s no pressure behind it or expectation, but it still catches me off guard.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
It’s not a lie. It’s just not the full truth. I’m very far from okay, but not for the reasons he’s probably thinking.
If he senses the deception, he doesn’t call me on it. Instead, he shifts and sits up a little straighter.
“I should head out.” He says.
There it is. The out. Relief should follow. That’s usually how this goes. Someone offers distance. I take it gratefully and wrap it around myself like armor. Except… I don’t want that from him.
I look up at him before I can catch myself. “Oh,” I say, clearing my throat.
Echo’s gaze flicks to my face, then away again. I can tell he’s purposely not trying to add pressure to the moment.
“You had a rough night.” He adds. “You probably want some privacy.”
I nod because that makes sense. Because it’s reasonable. Because he’s handling this with more care than I expected him to.
“Are you hungry?” I ask suddenly.
The words come out louder than I intend, and I inwardly cringe at myself.
Echo looks at me.
“There’s a cafe down the block,” I continue. “I was going to go anyway.”
I shrug, trying to act nonchalant. “You could come with. If you want.”
I brace for him to question me. To poke and prod until he understands exactly what I’m thinking. Surprisingly enough, he doesn’t.
“Okay.” He says, giving me a nod.
Some of the awkwardness dissipates and the tightness in my chest loosens.
I grab my hoodie from the back of a barstool and pull it on, suddenly grateful for something to do with my hands. Echo stands too, moving easily through my space.
As we head for the door, I catch a glimpse of us reflected in the hallway mirror. Me, still puffy-eyed and rumpled. Him, dark and solid and entirely too pretty in the morning light.
Christian is still out there.
Nothing about that has changed.
But I don’t feel like I need to crawl into a hole and hide. And I think I have Echo to thank for that.
Patty’s on 5th is aggressively cheerful for this hour of the morning.
Mint-green booths line the floor in neat rows, their vinyl seats gleaming under overhead lights that feel just a little too bright for how exhausted I am.
Every table has its own mini-jukebox perched on it with chrome edges dulled from years of use.
The walls are crowded with a mix of retro signs and framed ads that promise milkshakes, burgers, and happiness in equal measure.
Echo holds the door open for me, and as I slip past him, my shoulder brushes his chest. It’s impossible not to notice how solid he is.
He smells masculine and woody, like he always does, but somehow it feels wildly out of place in a place that serves pancakes 24/7.
My body wants to linger in it, and I have to consciously force myself to keep moving.
Behind me, Echo pauses and his attention shifts from me to the restaurant surrounding us.
His gaze moves slowly, taking everything in.
The emergency exits. The staff. The handful of early-morning regulars eating their meals.
When he finally moves forward, it’s with the same unhurried confidence he always has, and I fall in line beside him.
We slide into a booth near the window, and he has me take the seat facing away from the door.
He sits across from me, folding himself into the tiny booth.
His knees are angled awkwardly, his shoulders are crowding the vinyl, and his dark designer suit looks completely at odds with the mint-green seats.
He picks up a laminated menu curling at the edges, and I fight back a smile.
“What?” He asks.
“You look ridiculous.”
He cocks a brow. “Okay, Bedhead Bambi.”
My hands fly to my hair. Now he’s the one fighting a smile.
“Relax. I was just joking.”
“You joke?”
“Occasionally,” he says. “I’m very selective about my audience.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “Lucky me.”
The corner of his mouth tips up and I feel myself smiling back.
A waitress appears at our table, holding a notepad in her hand. She’s a pretty woman, probably a few years younger than me, with a high ponytail, winged eyeliner, and a bright smile.
“Morning,” she says brightly. “What can I get you two?”
Echo looks to me.
“Coffee, please and can I also order the blueberry pancakes, but with no syrup?”
The waitress nods, scribbles it down, then looks at Echo. “And for you?”
“I’ll do the same as her, but with syrup.”
When she leaves, Echo tilts his head at me. “No syrup?”
“I don’t like the fake stuff.” I say. “Too sweet.”
“Noted.”
I narrow my eyes. “You don’t need to file away facts about me like that.”
“I absolutely do,” he says calmly. “What kind of future husband would I be if I didn’t?”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling again. Against my will.
The coffee arrives first. I add cream and sugar to mine, while Echo keeps his black. The food comes out a few minutes later.
Our plates hit the table, and I instantly deflate. Both stacks of pancakes are drenched in syrup.
It’s not a big deal. It’s not like it’ll kill me, and I can try to scrape most of it off. I pick up my fork, already preparing to deal with it quietly.
“Excuse me, miss.” Echo says, calling out to our waitress and stopping her short. “Hers was supposed to have no syrup.”
“Oh, shoot. Sorry about that.” She says, giving me an apologetic smile. “Let me get that fixed for you right away.”
“Thank you.” Echo says.
She takes the plate and disappears back toward the kitchen. I stare at the empty space in front of me.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.
“Yes, I did,” he replies.
“I could’ve dealt with it,” I add.
“I know,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee. “But I’m here and you shouldn’t have to.”
A few minutes later my plate comes back perfect. No syrup and extra blueberries. I eat them slowly, letting the normalcy of the moment sink in. I’m eating pancakes with a killer.
A killer.
That’s the word I keep using for Echo. The one I default to when I don’t know what else to call him. It’s neat, contained, and it lets me keep distance between us, even while we’re sitting across from each other. Except it doesn’t really fit him anymore. And it hasn’t for a while.
Killers don’t show up when you need them. They don’t remember everything about you. Or prioritize your safety. Or treat you better than any other man ever has.
I take another sip of my coffee and watch him over the rim of my mug.
He’s focused on his food now, smashing through the pancakes and smiling to himself.
I realize, distantly, that I haven’t felt on edge the entire time we’ve been here. I didn’t track who came in or out. I didn’t clock the exits. I didn’t brace myself for anything. I just existed.
Echo may be a lot of things. Dangerous. Sexy. Complicated. Capable of things I don’t fully understand. But he’s also the guy who was there for me when shit got really rough. And maybe… maybe it’s time I stop calling him a killer long enough to see what else he might be to me.
I take another bite of my pancakes, still warm, still perfect.
Across from me, Echo glances up. “Good?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
And this time, I actually mean it.