Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
The Porch Light
Easton
Isaw Emma’s headlights long before she turned into my driveway—slow and dragging, as if the car knew she wasn’t okay.
The porch light glowed warmly over the boards beneath my boots, casting a circle of light against the dark.
I’d switched it on the moment Emma texted she was coming.
It didn’t matter that she knew the way; something in me needed that light on.
I wanted her to see it, to feel like someone was holding the door open for her, even from a distance.
But when she finally pulled in, the sight of her hit me like a gut punch.
Emma didn’t turn the engine off right away.
She sat there, shoulders hunched as if fighting to stay upright.
The soft dashboard glow washed over her face.
Even from the porch, I could see the struggle behind her eyes—she was trying not to cry.
Her hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white.
She looked… wrecked. Quietly. Completely. The way someone appears when they’ve run out of fight and don’t know what comes next.
When she finally turned off the ignition, the sudden quiet felt deafening. She opened the door and stepped out as if gravity had doubled its weight on her. Each movement was deliberate, as if one wrong step might cause everything inside her to spill out onto the ground.
She lifted her head and met my gaze, and for a moment, everything else faded away.
Hell.
Her expression was lost—cracked down the middle, trying so damn hard to hide it. Every protective instinct in me stood at full attention.
“Hey,” I said softly. “C’mere.”
Her chin trembled—just once, barely there—before she moved.
Emma took the stairs too fast and stumbled on the top one. I caught her before she could fall, and that was it—whatever thread she’d been holding onto snapped. A sound broke out of her, small and strangled, like someone who’d been underwater too long and finally surfaced.
Her fingers fisted into my shirt, desperate and shaking. She buried her face against me, trying to hide from the entire world.
“Hey, hey,” I murmured, wrapping my arms around her tight, as if I could hold her together with strength alone. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
Her breath hitched, sharp and uneven. This wasn’t full-on sobbing; this was worse—softer, quieter. The kind of broken that happens when a person has been strong for way too long.
She trembled once against me, then again, harder, as if she’d finally let herself feel everything she’d been holding back since Helena. Hope. Fear. All of it.
“It’s okay,” I whispered into her hair. “Let it hit. I’m right here.”
She didn’t nod. Didn’t pretend. Just held on, like she needed someone to keep her upright because she couldn’t do it herself anymore.
After a long moment, I tightened my hold and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Let’s get inside,” I murmured, guiding her gently toward the door. “You don’t have to do any of this alone tonight.”
Emma let me lead her—not because she was okay, but because she finally wasn’t pretending to be. Once inside, she stood in the entryway, blinking as if she couldn’t quite shift gears from the outside world to this one.
“You want a shower?” I asked softly. “Hot water helps… when things feel too big.”
Her throat bobbed. “Honestly?” She let out a humorless breath. “I feel like I’ve been shrink-wrapped in these clothes since Helena. If I don’t get out of them soon, I might scream.”
“Then don’t wait.” I brushed a damp strand of hair off her cheek. “Use my bathroom. Towels are on the rack. I’ll find something comfortable for you.”
She didn’t argue. Her voice was small when she whispered, “Thank you.”
The bathroom door clicked shut, and a moment later, I heard the shower run—first a sputter, then a steady stream. The sound eased something in me. At least she was warm. At least she was taking one breath that didn’t hurt.
I dug through my dresser and pulled out my softest flannel robe—the blue-and-black one I lived in on winter mornings. I set it neatly outside the bathroom, knocked once, and stepped away.
Twenty minutes later, she emerged.
And I swear…the air left my lungs.
My robe was huge on her—shoulders slipping, sleeves swallowing her hands, the belt tied twice around her waist because she was so damn small compared to me.
Her hair was damp, curling at the ends. Her face was scrubbed clean and blotchy from crying in the shower—which somehow made her look even more breakable.
And beautiful.
She caught me staring and tried to tug the collar closed like she was embarrassed, but I shook my head. “You look…” I swallowed. “Better. Comfortable.”
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “It’s warm.” Her voice cracked over those two simple words.
I opened my arms without thinking, and she came right into them—no hesitation this time.
I guided her to the couch, easing down first so she could curl into me.
And she did—pulled her legs up under the robe, pressed her shoulder to mine, tucked her cheek against my chest like she’d been doing it for years.
I settled the blanket over her legs. She let out a long breath, the kind that sounded like it pulled splinters out of her ribs.
“You talked to your mom?” I asked after a few beats of silence.
She nodded against me. “Yeah. She said everything for the celebration will be fine… even without the grant. She thinks maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.” Pain hid under her voice, thin but sharp.
“Your mom’s smart,” I said. “But maybe she left out another option.”
She shifted slightly. “What’s that?”
“That the Foundation made a mistake.”
A weak, cracked laugh slipped out of her. “You’re biased.”
“Nope,” I murmured, brushing my thumb over the back of her hand where it lay in her lap. “I’m honest.”
The tension in her shoulders loosened—just a little, but enough for me to feel it through the flannel and the steady rise of her breath. We sat like that for a little while, not talking, not needing to fill anything.
Outside, the world had gone still. Through the open window came the faint chorus of crickets, the slow drip of water sliding off the eaves, and the soft rustle of leaves shaking off the last of the rain. The quiet settled deep, warm and steady, like the earth itself letting out a breath.
Her breathing found mine in that hush—not perfectly in sync, but close enough to feel like we were sharing the same rhythm without trying. She felt small next to me. Small and exhausted but safe. And I held her like I was afraid to let the moment slip away.
After another long stretch of silence, she shifted just a little, lifting her head from my chest. Not far—barely an inch—but enough for me to see the shimmer in her eyes when she looked up.
“Easton?” she whispered.
“Yeah, Em.”
Her fingers squeezed mine. “Can I ask you something?” Her voice trembled—unsure, tender, like she was afraid the answer might confirm the things she was already scared of.
I rubbed the back of her hand, slow and steady. “Anything,” I said. And I meant it.
She swallowed, the movement small but visible, and I could tell she needed a second to gather herself. So I eased out from under her—not away, just enough to stand. “I’m gonna make us some tea,” I said quietly. “Give you a minute to think. Don’t go anywhere.”
She nodded, eyes following me even as she curled deeper into the corner of the couch.
I moved to the kitchen and turned on the Keurig, letting the soft clatter of mugs and the warm scent of chamomile settle in the air. The house felt different with her in it—like it wasn’t just space anymore, but a place that held something sweet and breakable.
When I came back, I handed her a mug, my fingers brushing hers on purpose.
“Here,” I murmured. “For whatever you’re about to ask.”
She wrapped both hands around the cup, grounding herself in the heat. Then she drew a slow breath, met my eyes again, and finally spoke.
“How’s the baby?”
I let out a breath. “Still critical.”
She looked up at me and furrowed her brow. “Critical?”
“Yeah.” I rubbed my jaw, trying to find words that wouldn’t make it worse. “They’re doing everything they can. He’s tiny, Em. Barely larger than my hand.”
Her fingers tightened around mine.
“And the mother?” she whispered.
“No word. They’re trying to find her,” I said. “But for now… he’s alone.”
Her throat worked like she was swallowing something sharp. “That breaks my heart.”
“Same.” I nodded.
Another long pause. Her head tipped back to rest on my shoulder, her hair brushing my jaw. I let my arm slide around her again, pulling her closer.
“You went to see him,” she said quietly.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
I thought about lying. Keeping it small. Pretending it was just because the fire crew was worried. But Emma didn’t need my half-truths. “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about him,” I admitted. “Couldn’t stand the idea of him just… lying there with no one.”
She didn’t speak, but the way she pressed closer told me she understood more than she wanted to.
Eventually, she asked, “Does he have a name?”
I hesitated. This—this was the part I had kept to myself. “No,” I said. “He didn’t.”
Her brows drew together. “So they just… call him ‘Baby Boy Doe’?”
“Yeah,” I said softly. “And it felt wrong.”
She lifted her head then, eyes locking on mine. “Easton…”
“I know,” I murmured. “Probably wasn’t my place. Probably wasn’t the smartest decision. But they asked if I had a suggestion, and I didn’t want him to be nameless another second.”
“What did you choose?” she whispered.
“Jacob.”
For a beat, she didn’t breathe. “Your grandfather’s name,” she said.
“Yeah.”
Her hand came up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing lightly across my skin. Something soft and full welled in her eyes—something that tore right through every wall I’d ever built.
“That’s beautiful,” she whispered. “I…I love that.”
I swallowed hard, every part of me tightening in ways I wasn’t ready for. “It just felt right,” I said. “He needed something real. Something to belong to, even if it’s just a name.”
Her eyes shimmered. “Easton… you gave him something to hold on to.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. So I didn’t. I just pulled her back into me, holding her close while the room hummed faintly around us. She melted into my side like she’d been waiting to exhale for days. Her cheek rested over my heartbeat, one hand curling into the fabric of my shirt.
I lowered my chin lightly to the top of her head. “You can stay as long as you want,” I murmured. “Tonight. Tomorrow. Hell, move in. I’ve got plenty of space.”
She let out a small, shaky laugh. “I might just take you up on that.”
“Good,” I whispered.
Her breathing slowed, her body relaxing fully against me for the first time since she arrived.
Outside, the porch light had glowed through the blinds—a small, steady beacon against the dark.
I’d left it on for her. And looking down at her now, wrapped in my robe and leaning into me like she trusted me with the whole weight of her world, I knew I’d keep that light burning as long as she needed it.
Maybe longer. Maybe always.
Her fingers brushed my ribs, feather-light. “Easton?”
“Yeah, sweetheart.”
She hesitated, then whispered, “Thank you… for making today hurt less.”
I squeezed my arm around her and kissed the top of her head. She settled deeper into my side, her breath warm through my shirt. “Can you take me to meet baby Jacob tomorrow?”
“Of course, Em. Of course.”