43. Violet
VIOLET
Drew Locke is a sweaty, scratched-up, leaf-covered disaster currently standing in my hallway with one shoelace untied, his shirt ripped near the hem, and a red mark blooming on his forehead from something I’m almost afraid to ask about.
Callie is still laughing, bent over with one hand braced on the wall, wheezing like she might actually need medical assistance.
“This is so hilarious,” she gasps, pointing at Drew, “You should win an award for worst stalker.”
Drew’s face goes scarlet.
“I’m not a stalker,” he snaps.
I lift a brow.
Callie laughs harder.
Drew looks at me, then at the tennis racket still clutched loosely in Callie’s hand. “Can you please tell her to stop laughing? And to drop the racket?”
“No,” I say. “She seems happy.”
“I was attacked.”
“You broke into our house.”
His lips part, but nothing comes out.
I smile.
I like it when he realizes he has no defense.
Callie wipes tears from beneath her eyes. “Oh my God. This is the funniest shit ever.”
“Shut up.” Drew points at her. “You hit me with a tennis racket.”
“You were creeping around like a burglar.”
“I thought I was being stealthy. I didn’t expect you to attack.” He tugs on the hem of his shirt. “Besides, I told you it was me.”
“After I hit you.”
“Twice.”
“You should have identified yourself faster. And not just said, ‘It’s me.’”
“I couldn’t think. Not with you swinging a racket like you were trying to take my head off.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
This is hilarious.
Not Drew being hurt.
But because beneath the whiskey, scratches, and ridiculous spy mission, he came here looking for answers.
Even if his method was terrible.
That’s the part I can’t stop thinking about.
Drew saw the thing that should have scared him away. The thing anyone else would call proof I’m too much.
And he’s still here.
Even if he looks like he lost a fight with yard equipment.
Even if Callie may never let him live this down.
I step closer and touch his arm. His attention snaps to me immediately.
“Come on,” I say softly.
His brows pull together. “Where?”
“To the bathroom. You’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
“I’m mostly fine.” He waves a hand. “I just stumbled into a bush. By accident.”
Callie makes a choking sound.
I turn my head slowly. “Callie.”
She presses her lips together, eyes sparkling. “I’m done.”
I know my sister. She is not done.
She will never be done.
I take Drew’s hand. “Come on.”
He looks down at our joined fingers like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
His palm is warm against mine. Slightly rough. Still tense.
I lead him from my room and into the hallway.
Callie calls after us, “Don’t bleed on the good towels.”
“We don’t have good towels,” I call back.
“The purple ones are off-limits.”
Drew makes a faint sound. It might be a laugh.
Good. He needs to relax.
I guide him into the bathroom and flip on the light. He immediately winces, blinking at his reflection in the mirror.
“Oh God,” he mutters. “My collar is still up like a bad spy.”
I step beside him and study him.
There are scratches along one cheek, dried blood on his forearm, dirt on his neck, and at least two leaves still tangled in his hair.
He looks ridiculous.
He also looks painfully endearing.
“That’s what you’re worried about.” I reach up and pluck a leaf from the side of his head.
He watches me in the mirror.
“I look insane,” he says.
“More like a bad spy in a rom-com.”
His ears turn red.
“In my defense…” He huffs out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve been drinking.”
“I gathered that.”
“I don’t drink whiskey. Ever.” A beat. “Until today.”
My mouth curves. “Was it medicinal?”
“No. It was a mistake.”
“Clearly.”
His gaze flicks to mine in the mirror. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
“A lot.”
“Maybe.”
He exhales, but some of the tension leaves his shoulders.
I open the cabinet beneath the sink and pull out the first-aid kit. Drew watches as I set it on the counter.
“You have a very organized first-aid kit,” he says.
“Of course I do.”
“Why did I know you’d say that?”
“Because you’re getting to know me.”
I see the shift in him. That quick internal retreat. The part of Drew that hears a simple sentence and turns it over, looking for danger.
I tear open an antiseptic wipe.
“Sit,” I tell him, pointing at the toilet.
“You want me to sit there?”
“Yes. The lid’s closed.”
“Feels undignified.”
“Says the man who stumbled into a bush.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it and sits.
Good boy.
I don’t say that out loud.
I step between his knees.
He goes utterly still.
His eyes lift to mine, and for one second, the bathroom feels smaller.
Warmer.
Quieter than it should be with Callie still laughing somewhere down the hall.
I take his chin gently between my fingers and tilt his face toward the light.
His throat works.
“This might sting,” I say.
“I’ve survived worse tonight.”
“Have you?”
“Your sister hit me with a racket.”
“You shouldn’t have broken into my house.”
His face flushes again.
I dab the antiseptic over the scratch on his cheek. He inhales sharply but doesn’t pull away.
“There,” I murmur. “Not so bad.”
His eyes stay on my face.
I let the silence stretch.
My fingers trail lightly beneath his jaw as I turn his head to reach the mark near his temple. It’s not necessary to touch him that way.
I do it anyway.
His breathing changes.
“You know,” I say lightly, “I’m curious.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It is.”
His lips twitch despite himself.
I smooth the wipe over a scratch near his hairline. “What exactly did you expect to find?”
He blinks.
“What?”
“When you broke into my house.” I tilt my head. “What exactly did you think you’d find?”
He shifts on the toilet seat.
The man is adorable when cornered.
“I don’t know.” He rubs his arm. “Proof, maybe.”
“Of what?”
He looks away.
“Drew.”
His gaze comes back to mine.
I smile slowly. “Were you expecting a wall of pictures? Red string? Notes about your movements? A whole detective board like someone investigating a crime?”
His eyes widen.
Oh, Drew.
I’d never be that careless.
My smile deepens. “You were.”
“I wasn’t—” He stops. “Maybe not exactly like that.”
“But close.”
“I was drinking whiskey.”
“Yes, we’ve established that.”
“And I was under emotional duress.”
“Were you?” My gaze drifts to the mark on his forehead. “Is that what happened there?”
His expression closes.
“Drew.”
“A rake hit me.”
I blink. “A rake?”
“Technically, I stepped on it.”
“So you attacked the rake.”
His eyes narrow. “That is not what happened.”
I fight the smile tugging at my lips. “Okay,” I say softly. “Then what happened?”
His expression shifts. The humor fades first. Then the embarrassment.
He looks away, focusing on anything except me.
“I don’t know,” he admits.
My fingers still.
Because that’s the first honest thing he’s said all night.
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” he continues. “One minute I was fine, and the next I was drinking whiskey, losing a fight with a rake, and breaking into your house.”
“You stepped on it.”
“Not important.”
My lips twitch.
Then he exhales. “I think I just… freaked out.”
“About me?”
His eyes meet mine.
For a second, I don’t think he’ll answer.
His voice is quiet when he says, “About everything.”
He clears his throat.
“Consider it bad judgment. And the fact that my ex is getting married.”
I still.
That’s the first thing he’s said that softens the amusement in my chest.
I study him more carefully.
His embarrassment is real.
So is the fear beneath it.
Not because he wants her back. But because something shifted today. Something that forced him to look at his life and realize he doesn’t know where he belongs anymore.
Except he does.
He belongs with me.
He just isn’t ready to admit it.
I toss the used wipe into the trash and open another.
“Does that bother you?” I ask.
His brows pull together. “No.” His gaze holds mine. “Not the way I thought it might.”
“Then why did it upset you?”
His jaw works.
I wait.
Finally, he says, “Because she’s moving forward like it’s so easy.”
Ah. There it is.
I soften my touch as I clean the scratch on his arm. “And you feel stuck.”
His eyes flick to mine.
I see the answer before he gives it.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Maybe.”
My thumb brushes the inside of his wrist. His pulse jumps beneath my touch.
“You’re not stuck,” I say.
He watches me.
“You moved into your own house. You adopted a kitten. You tried whiskey.” My mouth curves. “You became the worst stalker in Hollow Creek.”
He groans, dropping his head back. “Don’t.”
“It was impressive.”
“It was not.”
“No, you’re right.” I lean closer, lowering my voice. “It was terrible.”
His laugh slips out before he can stop it.
The sound settles in my chest.
Mine.
He’ll realize it soon enough.
I return my attention to his arm, dabbing another scratch. His skin is warm beneath my fingers, his body tense but no longer guarded in the same way.
This is what people don’t understand.
Control doesn’t always look like force.
Sometimes it looks like patience.
A clean cloth. Gentle fingers. A man sitting still because he trusts you enough to let you touch him.
I press a small bandage over the worst scratch near his wrist, smoothing the edges with my thumb.
His gaze drops to my hand. “I should go. Luna’s home alone.”
“I’ll drive you. As soon as I have you all cleaned up.”
I step closer. So close I feel the heat radiating from his body, though neither of us comments on it.
“Are you sure?” His gaze searches mine.
“Yeah.” I give him a soft smile. “I’m not mad, Drew.”
He cocks his head. “You’re not?”
I shake my head.
I can’t be angry.
Not after he crossed a line for me.
Because even when he’s suspicious, embarrassed, drunk, and ridiculous, he still finds his way to me.
But I don’t say any of that.
Instead, I lift one shoulder. “Because you’re bad at stalking. But you’re still here.”
His startled laugh fills the bathroom. The sound warms everything inside me.
“You’re making fun of me.”
“Yes.”
“That’s cruel.”
“It’s affectionate.”
His expression changes, softening. He looks down at my hand where it rests against his forearm. Then back at me.
“I’m sorry.”
The apology is quiet. Sober, even if he isn’t.
“I know.”
“I shouldn’t have come here like this.”
“No,” I agree. “You probably should have waited until you weren’t full of whiskey and bad ideas.”
He winces, then rubs a hand over his face. “Please stop making me feel worse.”
I smile and reach for another wipe.
He catches my wrist gently.
My chest hitches.
“Were you?” he asks. His thumb brushes once over my pulse. “Stalking me.”
The music still thumps faintly from Callie’s room. A car passes outside.
But between us?
There’s only silence.
His eyes search mine.
He already knows the answer.
He saw the binder.
The picture.
The pieces of myself I wasn’t ready for him to see.
But that’s not really what he’s asking.
“Does it scare you?” I ask.
His breath catches.
His fingers tighten a fraction. Enough to tell me everything.
“Violet,” he whispers.
My name sounds like a warning. Or a plea.
“You came here looking for proof,” I say softly.
He doesn’t move.
“And you found it.”
His throat works.
“So what are you really asking me?”
His gaze drops to my mouth.
Then lifts back to mine.
For a moment, I don’t think he’ll answer.
“Why me?” he whispers.
Something inside me stills.
He didn’t ask whether I wanted him.
He accepted that I did.
He simply doesn’t understand why.
I lift my hand and touch his cheek.
His eyes close for half a second. Like some part of him already trusts me, even while the rest of him is still trying to catch up.
“Because you’re you, Drew.”
His eyes open.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is.”
His brows pull together.
He doesn’t understand.
Not yet.
He thinks there needs to be a reason. Some grand explanation. Some checklist of things that make him worthy.
But there isn’t.
There’s just him.
The man who worries about a scared kitten being alone.
The man who's embarrassed when someone takes care of him.
The man who broke into my house looking for a reason to run... and stayed anyway.
I stroke my thumb carefully beneath the scratch on his cheek. “You should drink water.”
He shrugs.
“Callie. Can you get Drew some water?”
“Is he still alive?” She yells.
Drew groans, closing his eyes.
“Barely,” I answer.
“I’m fine,” Drew hollers. “Just fine.”
“Coming right up,” Callie says, turning the music down.
I turn back to him and pick up the first-aid kit. “We’re not done.”
He looks at the supplies, then at me. “With the first aid?”
I just smile.
A second later, Callie appears in the doorway with a glass of water, still grinning like this is the best night of her life.
Her gaze moves over Drew’s scratches.
Then the bandage on his wrist.
Then back to his eyes.
“You know,” she says, handing him the glass, “next time you stalk someone, wear black.”
Drew takes the water with a sigh. “Thank you for the advice.”
“And don’t get drunk beforehand.”
“Helpful.” He shakes his head. “Especially when there are rakes lurking in the wild.”
Callie’s eyes fly wide. “What?”
I smirk. “Drew stepped on a rake. That’s the reason for this.” I gesture to his mark on his forehead.
Callie doubles over, wheezing.
I shake my head while Drew takes a drink.
When she gets herself under control, she says, “What a night. First, there’s a screaming squirrel outside. Then—”
“It wasn’t a squirrel.” Drew’s face turns red.
Her eyes widen. “Oh my God. That was you?”
Drew glares at her. “I don’t scream like a squirrel. It was a startled gasp.”
Callie’s wheezing.
“It was a death shriek.”
I take the glass from him before he can spill it during another argument. “
I give Callie a look.
She lifts both hands. “Leaving. I’m leaving.” She backs away, still smiling. “But for the record, I approve.”
“Of what?” he demands.
Callie disappears down the hall without answering.
The air shifts again.
His gaze drops toward the doorway where Callie disappeared. “I didn’t mean to scare her.”
“She had a tennis racket. She was fine.” I grin. “She knows how to use it.”
I pat his chest once, then step back. “You should eat something before the whiskey wins.”
“The whiskey already won.”
I raise my brows. “You sure about that?”
He stands, a little unsteady, and I put a hand on his arm. He looks down at the contact, then at me.
I guide him toward the door. “Come on, worst stalker ever.”
He groans. “Please don’t call me that.”
“Would you prefer squirrel?”
“No.”
“Rake victim?”
“Violet.”
I smile.
There’s the guy I know.
Flustered. Bruised.
Mine in ways he isn’t ready to understand.
I lead him into the hallway, my hand still wrapped around his arm.
This time, he doesn’t pull away.
“Come on,” I say softly. “Let’s get you home.”