Chapter 18
I know she’s awake before I see her.
Not because I hear anything obvious through the wall.
Not because I’m standing outside her damn door like some kind of creep.
Just because by the time I hit the hall that morning, coffee already halfway gone and my cut settled over my shoulders where it belongs, there’s a shift in the air outside her room that wasn’t there ten minutes ago.
Movement. Presence. Awareness.
I hate that I can tell the difference. I hate it even more that I don’t even have to think about it anymore.
I round the corner toward the kitchen and there she is.
Barefoot again. Hair loose again. And wearing my sweatshirt.
The sight of it nearly stops me in my tracks.
Not because I didn’t know she’d find it.
I left it folded on her bed for a reason, even if I’ve done a real shit job of explaining that reason to myself.
Not because I expected some big reaction either.
If anything, I figured she’d either ignore it or bring it back again like she was trying to win a war against comfort she didn’t think she deserved.
But she’s wearing it.
Actually wearing it.
The sleeves are pushed up slightly at her wrists this time, like she’s already been moving around in it long enough to need her hands free.
The hem hits high enough on her thighs to tell me she’s probably got shorts on underneath, though I can’t see them from where I’m standing and I very specifically do not let myself look too hard.
Her hair is still a little sleep-mussed, dark and soft around her shoulders, and she’s holding a mug with both hands like she’s trying to warm herself from the inside out.
She looks up. Sees me. And something passes between us immediately. Recognition. Understanding. A silent thanks she doesn’t say out loud.
And something else.
Something warmer. Something more dangerous.
Not a smile exactly, though the corner of her mouth shifts like she might be thinking about one. More like a quiet acknowledgment of the fact that she knows exactly why the sweatshirt was on her bed and I know exactly why she’s wearing it now.
Neither of us says anything about it.
Good.
Because if we start saying things about it, I’m not entirely convinced I’ll say the right ones.
“Morning,” she says instead. Her voice is still rough with sleep.
That’s becoming a problem all by itself.
“Yeah.”
She glances down at the sweatshirt for half a second, then back at me. “Thank you.”
There it is.
Simple. Quiet. And somehow worse than if she’d made a joke out of it.
I lean one shoulder against the kitchen doorway and keep my eyes on her face because the alternative is a bad fucking idea. “Didn’t want you freezing to death in your room.”
One brow lifts slightly. “Such a gentleman.”
“Don’t spread that around.”
That gets me exactly what I was aiming for.
A soft, real laugh. Small enough to miss if you weren’t paying attention.
I am, unfortunately, paying attention.
Always.
She shifts around me to refill her coffee, and I step back automatically to give her space. The sweatshirt brushes my arm as she passes, warm from her body, and my brain immediately betrays me by filing away that detail too.
I need a hobby. A better one than this.
The kitchen is quiet this early, only the low hum of the fridge and the occasional clink of ceramic when she sets her mug down.
Sunlight is just starting to work its way through the windows, pale and soft enough to make the whole room feel slower than the rest of the clubhouse ever really allows. It should be an ordinary morning.
And it is.
That’s the problem. Ordinary is getting dangerous.
Raven pours coffee, adds the same creamer and sugar she used yesterday, and I hate that I notice the exact amount without even trying. She catches me watching the coffee station for a second too long and tilts her head. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That looked like something.”
“It wasn’t.”
Her mouth twitches again like she knows I’m full of shit.
Probably because I am.
She takes her mug and leans against the counter across from me, shoulders still slightly rounded with sleep, one bare foot hooking behind the other in a way that looks absentminded and comfortable and absolutely not like the kind of body language I should be clocking before breakfast.
I force my attention elsewhere.
That should be easy. It isn’t. Because now that I’ve been around her for more than a single night and a long drive, I’m noticing too much.
Little things. Tiny things.
The kind most people would miss. The kind I don’t. And once I notice them, I can’t stop.
The first time it hits me that morning is when Cain comes barreling into the kitchen looking for his keys and arguing with Emma over his shoulder about something one of the kids did with markers and a wall.
It’s not serious. It’s not ugly. Just normal married-people volume.
Loud enough to fill the room for a second before he turns back toward the hall.
Raven flinches. Barely.
Not enough for Cain or Emma to catch it.
Enough for me.
Her shoulders tighten. Her hand stills around her mug. Her eyes flick automatically toward the sound before she reins herself back in and makes it look like nothing happened at all.
But I saw it.
That goes into the pile with the rest. Then there’s the way she apologizes too fast.
Later Emma asks if she wants breakfast and Raven says, “Sorry, I can make something myself,” before Emma even finishes the sentence.
Sorry.
For existing. For being offered food. For taking up room in a kitchen she’s already been told she can use.
I don’t like that one. Not even a little.
Later, when we’re all moving around the common room and Lexi is chasing Jason in circles with Bunny dragging behind her like a tiny hostage, I catch Raven checking the front door. Then the side door. Then the hall near the back exit.
Not obsessively. Not in a way anyone else would probably clock if they weren’t looking for it. But she checks them.
Every time she passes.
A glance. A quick verification.
Like she can’t quite stop herself from making sure the barrier between her and the outside world is still where she left it.
That one settles ugly under my skin.
Then there’s the freeze response. That one pisses me off enough I have to physically unclench my jaw.
Mac comes around the corner too fast at one point, not paying attention because she’s laughing at something Blaze said from the porch. Raven doesn’t even fully see her before she reacts.
She just feels movement behind her and goes rigid. Instantly. Not a scream. Not a stumble. Just total stillness for one sharp second like her body has learned that sometimes the safest move is to become motionless and wait for impact.
It’s gone just as fast.
Mac doesn’t notice. Nobody notices.
Except me. And once I see that, I can’t stop seeing it.
The shape of it. The history behind it. The kind of fear that gets stored in a body and starts living there even after the danger isn’t immediately in front of you anymore.
I lean against the far wall with my coffee and tell myself not to stare.
Then fail.
Because now I’m seeing everything she tries to hide too. The exhaustion is obvious once you know what you’re looking for. Not just being tired. Not just adjusting to a new place.
This is the kind of exhaustion that comes from living too long with your nervous system set to emergency. The kind where even when you finally get sleep, your body doesn’t know what to do with it because it spent too long believing rest was a trap.
There’s pride too.
A whole lot of it.
It’s in the way she reaches for things herself even when somebody’s already moving to help. The way she always says she’s fine before she says anything else. The way she thanks people like she’s afraid kindness is expensive and she’d better pay for it quickly before anyone changes their mind.
And fear.
That one’s quieter. Less obvious if you don’t know how to look. But it’s there in the way she never fully puts her back to a room.
Ever.
Kitchen. Common area. Porch. Hallway. Doesn’t matter.
She always angles herself just enough to keep sight lines open. Keeps exits in view. Keeps the room readable.
That isn’t habit. That’s survival. I know the difference. And every time I notice another piece of it, the same thought keeps landing harder.
Somebody taught her this.
Somebody put enough fear into her body that now she moves like a woman who learned safety is mostly about anticipation.
That thought has me on a short fuse all fucking day.
I don’t ask her about any of it. Not because I don’t want to know. Because I know enough already to understand what asking would do.
People like Raven don’t open up because somebody demands it. They either tell you when they’re ready or they don’t tell you at all. And trying to pry a story out of a woman whose body is already carrying too much is a good way to make yourself one more thing she has to guard against.
So I don’t ask. I don’t push. I just start doing things.
Quietly. Without telling her. Without asking permission.
The first is her windows.
That night, after most of the clubhouse settles and the main room noise drops to a manageable hum, I do a slow walk around the outside of the building with a flashlight and a temper.
I check every window in the downstairs hall.
Her room first. Then the bathroom. Then the one at the far end of the corridor.
Locks solid. Frames good. No weak points worth worrying about. Still, I wedge a better stopper into the lower track of her window anyway because I don’t like how easy the old one would be to force if somebody got stupid.
Then I check her door lock.
Not from inside, obviously. I’m not a fucking psycho.
But I know this building, and I know exactly which doors stick, which locks need pressure, which hinges are due for replacement. Hers works fine.
Fine isn’t enough.