Chapter 12
chapter
twelve
Juliette
Cruz’s place smells like cedar and clean laundry. It’s small. One of those tiny rental cabins near the river. It fits him, though.
He’s sitting at the edge of his couch when I come in, a melting ice pack pressed against the side of his jaw. The bruise has already started to darken, a wash of purple along his cheekbone.
“Looks bad,” I say, setting my bag down on the chair.
He doesn’t look up right away. “Feels worse.”
I cross the room and kneel in front of him, reaching for the ice pack. “Let me.”
He hesitates for a heartbeat, then lets me take it. The cold stings my fingers. I press it gently to his skin, watching the way his jaw flexes under the pressure.
“You didn’t have to just stand there and take it,” I whisper.
“I know.” His voice is quiet, low enough that it almost gets lost under the hum of the air conditioner. “But it was easier than hitting your brother.”
“He didn’t deserve that kind of grace.”
Cruz gives a tired half-smile. “Maybe not. But you love him. And you would’ve looked at me differently if I’d hit him back.”
He’s right, and I hate that he’s right.
I pull the ice away for a second, tracing the edge of the bruise with my thumb. The skin is warm, rough under my touch. “Still doesn’t make it okay.”
“Never said it did.” His gaze finds mine, steady and soft all at once. “But I’m not sorry I did it.”
“Because you’re noble?”
He laughs under his breath. “Hardly. Because you were there. And I’ll always take the hit if it means you don’t have to.”
Something catches in my chest, a sharp little ache that feels a lot like love.
“You shouldn’t have to protect me,” I say.
He tilts his head, eyes holding mine. “If you’re going to be mine, Juliette, you need to get used to it. I will always protect you. Always.”
For a moment, neither of us says anything. The ice pack drips a little, cold water running over my knuckles. He reaches out, brushes his thumb across the wet trail, slow and deliberate.
“You know he’s not wrong,” Cruz says softly. “People are gonna talk.”
“Let them,” I answer, echoing what I said earlier. “This is Saddle Creek—they’ll talk about anyone who buys the wrong brand of dog food. They’ll get bored eventually.”
He huffs out a laugh, and I feel it vibrate through him.
When I lean back to look at him, the bruise is angry but less swollen. His eyes are tired, but there’s something gentler there too—something that wasn’t before.
“Come here,” he murmurs, tugging me forward until I’m sideways across his lap, my head tucked against his chest.
“You know it’s gonna go both ways. I’m always going to protect you, too.”
He chuffs a little laugh. “I have no doubt. You know, Princess Buttercup isn’t as fitting as I initially thought. Maybe I should’ve called you Valkyrie.”
“As long as you call me yours, I don’t care about the rest.”
The room is quiet except for the cicadas outside, the hum of the fridge, and the soft rhythm of our breathing syncing in the dark.
Right now, it’s just Cruz, warm and steady, the faint smell of cedar and coffee, and the quiet, stubborn kind of peace that only comes when you stop running from what you already knew was yours.