Chapter 5 Greta
Greta
If I never say Travis Carrick’s name again, it’ll still be too soon.
The thing about trauma—about men like him—is how they make you relive it over and over, even when they’re not in the room. I’ve said his name more today than I have in the last year. And each time, it tastes like rust and regret.
But here I am. In a mountain cabin with Nate Bishop, who cooks like a seasoned Food Network pro and watches me like I’m a puzzle he’s halfway through solving.
He’s been quiet since I told him everything. Not cold, just… focused. Like the more he knows about Travis, the more ways he’s plotting to destroy him.
Honestly? That’s comforting.
The man slices peppers with more precision than should be legal. He moves around his kitchen like he’s done it a thousand times, but there’s a slight stiffness in his shoulder every time he turns. Something tells me the soldier in him never quite clocked out.
He slides a plate of food in front of me and nods like he’s just fulfilled a mission.
“Eat,” he says.
I blink. “You sound like my grandma.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Was she a combat vet too?”
“She wore slippers shaped like ducks and watched Jeopardy every night. But yeah, definitely had the same tone.”
He almost—almost—smiles.
The food is incredible. Roasted chicken, garlic green beans, mashed potatoes that taste like he churned the butter himself with his bare hands. I moan around the first bite, and I swear his eyes darken.
Nate doesn’t flirt. Not really. But the air around him? Charged. It hums with this low-key, quiet sort of tension that makes me hyperaware of everything—of how big his hands are, how deep his voice is, how close he sits even when he’s trying not to.
And I can’t lie… I like it.
After dinner, he stands and says, “You trust me?”
My fork’s halfway to my mouth. “That’s an ominous way to start a conversation.”
He cracks a real smile this time, just a small one. “Come on. I want to show you a few things.”
And that’s how I end up barefoot in his living room, trying to break out of Nate Bishop’s arms without swooning like a Regency heroine.
He’s teaching me self-defense—how to break grips, how to use leverage, how to stab someone in the femoral artery with a pen. Romantic, right?
“You’re underestimating your strength,” he says, repositioning my elbow.
“I’m a server, Nate. I lift coffee pots, not combat gear.”
“Coffee pots are heavy. Try again.”
He grabs my wrist, slow and controlled, and I pivot like he taught me. He lets out a low sound of approval when I twist free.
“You’re a fast learner.”
“Fast is what I need if I’m ever going to make that creep eat pavement.”
He studies me, something unreadable in his expression. Then he nods, just once, and that approval hits me harder than I expect.
We practice until my muscles ache, until the adrenaline fades, until I’m too tired to think about anything but sleep. He offers me the bathroom first, and I take the world's longest shower, letting the hot water melt off the tension that’s clung to me for years.
When I emerge, steam follows me into the room, and Nate is kneeling on the floor by the fireplace, making up a bed like we’re in some weird domestic sleepover.
I clear my throat.
He looks up.
And freezes.
Yeah. My pajamas are… a little cute. Soft jersey tank. Fitted shorts. Nothing scandalous. But Nate looks like I just showed up in a ballgown and declared undying love.
His throat bobs with a swallow. “You, uh… you comfortable?”
I walk toward the bed. “I was about to ask you that.”
He finishes spreading out the blanket and sits back on his heels. “I’ve slept in worse places.”
“Like where?”
“Behind a collapsed barn in southern Iraq. Inside a half-sunk boat on the coast of Tunisia. Once under a Jeep during a monsoon.”
“That sounds… cozy.”
“Depends on your definition.”
I slide onto the bed and curl under the blanket, heart still hammering a little too fast from his reaction. From mine.
He dims the lights, leaving only the fire’s glow.
The room goes quiet.
And something in my chest loosens.
Maybe it’s the warmth. Maybe it’s the fact that he hasn’t asked for anything in return. Maybe it’s the fact that this man could’ve walked away a hundred times—and hasn’t.
“Nate?” I whisper.
He shifts on the floor beside me, one arm folded behind his head.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
His brow furrows. I can feel it in the dark. “For what?”
“You didn’t have to do any of this. You didn’t have to believe me. Or bring me here. Or give me your bed.”
He’s silent for a second too long.
Then—
“I’d do it again tomorrow. No question.”
My throat goes tight. “Even if I steal all the hot water?”
“Even then.”
I smile into the pillow. “You’re kind of amazing, you know that?”
He doesn’t respond. But when the fire crackles, I hear him breathe out, slow and deep, like maybe he needed those words more than I realized.
And for the first time in years, I fall asleep feeling safe.
Not because the door is locked.
Not because I’m off the grid.
But because he’s here.
And that’s enough.