Chapter 11
Marcus
I ’m a fucking coward.
Not the kind that flinches at danger—I’ve faced down terrorists, drug cartels, domestic disputes, a drunk guy with a machete in nothing but Scooby-Doo boxers. No, I’m not scared of the world, but I am scared of her.
I grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles ache. The cruiser’s parked just off the overlook road, the one that curves above the ocean. It’s peaceful here. Quiet.
I hate it because the silence has teeth, and it’s chewing through the guilt lodged in my chest like it’s got something to prove.
Julie.
Sunlight spilled across her shoulder this morning like a damn painting. Her hair was a mess, curled across the pillow. I could’ve reached out. I could’ve stayed. Said something. Anything.
But, no, instead, I got up like a thief and left without a sound. No note. No text. No explanation. I just left like the fucking coward that I am.
It’s my MO. My history. I disappear before I can wreck something good. I don’t deserve good. Matt and his family would attest to that.
"Fuck," I mutter, scrubbing a hand down my face.
What the hell is wrong with me?
She let me in—literally and emotionally—and I ran. That’s what fear does. It sneaks in when things get too real, whispering all the reasons I’m not good enough. Too damaged. Too distant. Too... me.
I replay every second of last night, over and over in my head. The way she looked at me. The way her voice cracked when she said she doesn’t usually let people in. God, the way she curled into me afterward like she wasn’t afraid of my rough edges and what did I do? I left like the fucktard that I am.
What if the minute I stay, I give her the chance to see all the dark corners I’ve spent years hiding? What if she looks at me in the daylight and changes her mind? I don’t know if I can survive that.
I slam the heel of my palm against the steering wheel once. The horn lets out a short, angry honk that startles a seagull off a nearby post.
Coward.
I know better. I know I hurt her. It’s not just that I didn’t show up at the bakery this morning—my usual black coffee and raspberry danish routine was never about caffeine or sugar. It was about seeing her. Watching her smile when she caught me staring. Listening to her hum when she thought no one was paying attention. Letting her brightness seep into the cracks I swore were dark.
And now I’ve iced her out because I’m too much of a chickenshit to deal with what comes next.
She deserves more. A lot more. More than a man who sneaks out like a ghost. More than someone who panics at the first sign of something real.
I lean my head back against the headrest feeling the weight of it all.
She gave me everything last night—her trust, her body, her quiet strength—and I gave her silence in return.
What the hell is wrong with me?
* * *
Delgado shows up to my garage uninvited.
I hear his boots before I see him—heavy, confident, and always sounding like he’s got somewhere better to be. The door creaks open, and he strolls in, a takeout coffee in one hand and judgment in his eyes.
“Figured I’d find you sulking out here like a teenager who got grounded from prom,” he says, tossing the spare cup onto the workbench.
“I’m not sulking,” I grunt, sanding the same corner of a half-finished end table for the third time today.
Delgado leans against the wall, arms crossed, not buying my bullshit for a second. “You’ve been working that same damn corner for however long you’ve been out here. It’s smoother than a baby’s ass. You wanna tell me what the hell’s really going on, or should I start guessing?”
I don’t answer. He waits anyway.
“I noticed you didn’t go to the bakery this morning,” he says finally. “And don’t give me that ‘on patrol’ excuse. Dispatch didn’t have you on any calls this morning.”
I scowl. “You keeping track of me now?”
“When my best friend goes from low-key obsessed to a full-on disappearing act? Yeah. I keep track of him.”
I curse under my breath and set the sandpaper down, leaning on the edge of the bench like it might hold me up. “I fucked up.”
“No shit.” Delgado raises a brow. “How?”
“We slept together last night and this morning, I left. I didn’t say anything. Just left her to wake up alone and…” I shake my head. “I panicked. I fucking panicked.”
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, like he’s not sure whether to deck me or throw something at my head. “Dude. Come on. You’ve got a woman who actually gives a shit about you. She bakes you muffins, for fuck’s sake.”
“Danishes,” I correct automatically.
He gives me a long, flat look. “Not the point.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t because if you did, you wouldn’t be out here hiding in sawdust and guilt. You’d be over there fixing your royal fuck up.”
I turn away, jaw tight because he’s right.
He keeps going. “Look, I get it. You’re used to keeping people at arm’s length. You’ve got your reasons—hell, I’ve seen your military file, remember? But Julie? She’s not a mistake. She’s not a risk. She’s the first good thing you’ve let into your life since I’ve known you. And you’re gonna let your trauma scare you into walking away from that? If you do, you’re more of a fuck up than I thought. If she were mine, I’d never let her go.”
His words hit harder than I expect, and the jealousy deep in my gut tells me every word is true.
“She looked so damn happy last night,” I say quietly. “And then this morning… I didn’t know how to stay. How to be enough for her.”
Delgado steps forward, grabbing my shoulder and giving it a solid shake. “Then fucking learn. Figure it the hell out. But don’t punish her for making you feel something real.”
I meet his eyes, and there’s no judgment there now. Just the kind of loyalty that only comes from years of watching each other bleed and survive.
“You think she’ll forgive me?” I ask.
Delgado smirks. “You show up with that sad puppy face, maybe she’ll forgive you; maybe she won’t, but you’ll never know if you don’t go find out.”
I grab my keys, adrenaline kicking in.
It’s time to stop hiding—and time to start making things right before it’s too late.
* * *
By the time I get to Seaside Sweets, the sun’s already dipping below the horizon and casting a golden glow over the street. I’m too late.
The front windows are dark. Chairs flipped upside down on tables. No light spilling from the kitchen. She’s not here.
My stomach drops.
I park anyway, double-checking like maybe she’s inside cleaning up or doing something in the back, but I already know better. She locks up around five-thirty if it’s a slow day—and today clearly was. The “Closed” sign on the door is like a slap.
I rub a hand down the back of my neck and mutter, “Dammit.” I blew it.
I stand there for a second, leaning against the hood of my truck like a jackass, staring at her storefront like it’s going to sprout a solution out of thin air.
I curse under my breath and get back in the truck. Maybe she’s at home. Maybe she just needed to breathe and get away from the routine of an ordinary day for a bit. Maybe she’s curled up on the couch watching some baking show and yelling at the screen about people overmixing their batter.
Probably not, but I’ve got an ounce of hope left in me.
It takes five minutes to get to her place, but it feels like an hour.
When I pull up to her house, the front porch lights are off. There’s no sign of her car. No movement behind the curtains. She’s not home.
I kill the engine but don’t move. I sit there gripping the wheel like it might hold me together while my brain runs through every worst-case scenario it can come up with.
She’s pissed. Of course she’s pissed. I left her. After everything that happened last night—after she let me in, after she opened up, after she gave me every damn reason to stay.
Fuck, what if she’s done with me? What if she’s already moving on—already deciding she’s not wasting her time waiting for the emotionally stunted cop with commitment issues?
I rest my forehead against the steering wheel, breathing through the tight knot in my chest that feels a lot like regret. I don’t do panic. I don’t do messy emotions. But right now, I feel like I’m about ten seconds from losing something that really matters.
A light flares on down the block, motion sensor kicking on at a neighbor’s place, and I realize I’m just sitting in her driveway like some lovesick teenager. I could come back tomorrow.
I could try again in the morning; hope she hasn’t thrown my name into a bonfire along with her raspberry danish recipe.
But I’m tired of running and I’ve got nowhere left to go but toward her. Even if she slams the door in my face, I have to at least try. She can’t think I’ve walked away. I need to stay and wait for her… even if she turns me away.
Hell, especially if she does… because for the first time in a long time, I don’t want to be anywhere else but here with her.