Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Running Home
Emma
For a moment, all I could hear was my heartbeat—loud and frantic in my ears. Then came footsteps on the porch.
“Someone’s outside the front door,” I whispered, fingers digging into Easton’s shoulders before I remembered I was very, very naked. He went still above me, pushing up on his forearms, breath rough.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I hear it.”
A sharp knock rattled the front door.
“Easton?” A familiar voice called. “You alive in there?”
Bruce. My stomach dropped straight through the couch cushions.
“Oh my God,” I breathed, already scrambling.
Easton rolled off me, sitting up, dragging a hand through his hair. “Bathroom,” he said, voice low. “Go.”
I was clutching my clothes to my chest, half-tripping on the rug. Fabrics tangled—shirt, jeans, bra, panties—no idea whose was whose. I bolted down the hall, pulse hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat.
Another knock. Louder this time.
“Yeah, hang on,” Easton called, sounding annoyingly unbothered.
I shut the bathroom door and leaned against it, pressing my lips together to suppress a laugh or scream or maybe both.
“Awesome job, Emma,” I muttered. “Ten out of ten. Would mortify self again.” I dragged my jeans on with shaking hands, nearly putting both feet in the same leg. Bra. Blouse. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—flushed cheeks, swollen mouth, hair that screamed I just had sex. Fantastic.
I tightened my ponytail, scrubbed eyeliner smudges from under my eyes, and tried to look like a woman who hadn’t just done something irreversible.
The front door creaked open.
“Dude,” Bruce said, voice carrying down the hallway. “I texted. Twice. You grow new thumbs or something?”
“I was… busy,” Easton said.
The flat, unapologetic tone made heat crawl up my neck. He wasn’t even pretending this was anything else.
Bruce snorted. “Yeah, I can see that. Movie’s still going. What were you watching, anyway? Some cooking show? Or is that a rom-com with a really aggressive soundtrack?”
I winced. We’d never turned the TV off.
“No idea,” Easton said. “It kind of became background noise.”
I could hear the smirk in his voice, and my face went even hotter.
I moved away from the door, trying not to eavesdrop and absolutely failing.
“I mostly swung by because you never texted back,” Bruce said. “Cam’s ready to buy the supplies. Figured I’d drop by and grab the check so he could get the project started.”
“Right. The check,” Easton replied.
The safe-surrender box wasn’t just a proposal anymore; it was a lifeline—one that could save a newborn’s life, one that might give a desperate woman a safer choice. And Easton had agreed to fund it without hesitation, without needing applause. That… mattered.
“Envelope’s on my desk,” Easton said. “Tell him if he needs more for install, I’m not gonna have a meltdown. I’d rather they overbuild it than cut corners.”
Something in his tone—steady, matter-of-fact—landed hard. No drama, no grandstanding. Just… this is the right thing, so I’m going to do it.
“Damn,” Bruce said quietly. “You sure you’re okay with this, man? It’s a chunk of change.”
“Yeah,” Easton replied. “It’s not gonna hurt me. Might help somebody else. That math pencils out.”
I pressed my hand to my heart as I heard Easton’s bare feet padding away. “Let me get the check. Cam’s gonna lose his mind. In a good way…” Easton’s voice trailed off.
All fell silent for a beat or two before I heard footfalls again. “Tell him not to make it weird,” Easton said dryly.
“You know he will anyway,” Bruce said. “Guy gets emotional over a new hose nozzle. This? He’ll probably try to hug you.”
“Then you’re responsible for intercepting,” Easton said. “That’s in your job description as my friend.”
They both laughed—warm, familiar, easy.
For a moment, I just stood there in the bathroom, fingers pressed against the cool porcelain of the sink, listening to them. Easton had probably just donated more money than I made in a year, and he sounded calmer about it than I was about groceries.
Mom’s voice wandered through my head—her gentle suggestions that I should “stretch a little,” try not to live quite so small.
Find someone who could meet you where you’re going, not just where you’ve been.
I’d always brushed her off. Safe felt smart.
But this was Easton. And I wasn’t sure safe was working for me anymore.
“All right,” Bruce said. “I’ll get this to Cam before he reorganizes the entire equipment room to burn off nervous energy. We still on for figuring out a day to run the logging road?”
“Yeah,” Easton said. “Once he’s not calling you every ten minutes. We’ll pick a day you’re actually off and do it right.”
I could hear the smile in Bruce’s voice. “You say that like I won’t be the one waiting on you.”
“Keep dreaming,” Easton replied. “Drive safe.”
The door opened again. The truck engine turned over and rolled away. Silence seeped in around the edges.
Then a soft knock on the bathroom door.
“Emma?” Easton asked quietly. “You okay?”
I stared at my reflection for a heartbeat longer. My blouse was mostly straight. Hair contained. Eyes... not so much.
“I’m decent,” I said, opening the door.
He leaned against the opposite wall, barefoot, jeans on, belt hanging loose. The sight did unfortunate things to my blood pressure.
His gaze did a quick sweep—hair, flushed cheeks, the way I was hugging my arms around myself—and softened.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
We stood there, three feet apart but feeling like miles. “Sorry about the interruption,” he said. “Bruce has a talent for timing.”
“It’s not your fault,” I said. “He texted. You just… had better things to do than look at your phone.”
The corner of his mouth tugged up. “Yeah, I did.”
Heat crawled up my neck again.
Easton pushed off the wall, closing some of the distance but stopping short—like he was intentionally giving me room.
“You don’t have to run off,” he said gently. “We can… just hang out. Finish the movie neither of us watched.” His mouth quirked. “Or start a better one.”
The offer tugged at me, hard. His kitchen still smelled like grilled cheese and tomato soup. The couch was still rumpled. My body still hummed from him.
But my heart…
“I probably should go,” I whispered. “I need to be functional tomorrow. And I still don’t have the grant proposal revision done.”
He nodded once, slowly. No flinch. No annoyance. Just acceptance. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll walk you out.”
That almost made me stay. But I grabbed my bag while he shut off the lights and muted the TV. The living room looked nearly normal again, like you could wipe away what had happened if you just straightened the throw blankets.
Except I knew better.
At the door, he opened it for me. Cool night air rushed in.
“Easton?”
“Yeah?” He braced a hand on the doorframe.
“Thank you,” I said.
He tilted his head. “For what? The sandwich?”
“Well, the sandwich was good. But I meant the sanctuary project,” I whispered. “For not making a big deal out of it. Some people would. Donors can be… prima donnas.”
Something flickered across his face. “Honestly? It is a big deal,” he said. “Just… not about me.”
My chest squeezed. “Still,” I said. “It matters. I’m glad you did it.”
He held my gaze long enough to make my pulse flutter, then nodded like he was tucking the moment somewhere safe. “Text me when you get home,” he said quietly. “So I know you didn’t run into a rogue deer or a pothole with bad intentions.”
I huffed out a laugh. “Okay, bossy.”
“Accurate,” he said.
I walked down the steps toward my car. At the door, I glanced back. He was still there, hand on the frame, like he wanted to say something and wasn’t sure he should.
I waved and got in before I could overthink it.
The drive home was short, but my thoughts made it feel longer. The dark highway rolled under my tires, headlights showing only a sliver of the road ahead while everything else stayed shadowed.
I’d just slept with Easton.
The words pulsed in my mind like a neon sign. Not a mistake. Not an accident. Not a fluke of timing and grilled cheese.
I’d wanted it. Wanted him.
And he’d handled everything—Bruce, the interruption, the donation—with a steadiness I wasn’t sure I possessed.
My hands tightened on the wheel.
He wasn’t perfect. But tonight, I’d seen something real—someone who stepped up without needing applause. Someone willing to be seen exactly as he was.
And me? What was I doing? Running. Again.
Pine Street was quiet when I turned onto it. Porch lights glowed. A TV flickered behind a curtain. When I pulled into our driveway, Mom’s car was already there—parked straight and neat.
The porch light glowed like a steady little beacon. Home. Safe. Predictable.
I should have relaxed. Instead, something inside me tightened.
Through the front window, I saw Mom moving around the living room, phone pressed to her ear—probably talking to Hank again. She’d wave, maybe offer tea. She wouldn’t ask where I’d been. That should’ve been a relief.
It wasn’t.
For the first time, pulling into this driveway felt less like coming home… and more like ducking behind a wall. Like I’d retreated instead of stepping toward something.
Easton hadn’t hidden. He’d been honest. He’d opened the door—literally and figuratively.
And me? I’d run.
I let my forehead rest against the steering wheel and breathed slowly.
Home should’ve steadied me. Instead, it felt like the wrong place to be.