Chapter 41 Delaney
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Delaney
I don’t mean to hide.
That’s the lie I tell myself while I sit on the edge of the bed, knees pulled up, phone face down on the nightstand like it might start screaming if I look at it again. I tell myself I just need a minute. Just enough time to breathe without anyone watching.
The truth is, I don’t trust my face yet.
It still feels like it might give me away. If I walk out, everyone will see the cracks I worked so hard to glue together on the drive home. My eyes burn. My chest feels bruised from the inside out, like something slammed into me and didn’t leave a visible mark.
And underneath it all, quiet but insistent, is Marcus.
The realization hits again, sharp as it did in the café.
He found me.
The thought spirals fast, relentless. He found me here. After everything I did to disappear. After changing my routines, shrinking my life, and convincing myself that distance and silence were enough to keep me safe.
I came to the middle of nowhere on purpose.
I chose a town so small it barely exists on a map. I took a job that didn’t come with press or prestige or a name worth remembering. I stopped posting. Stopped tagging locations. Stopped being visible.
And it didn’t matter.
My pulse stutters.
If he found me once, what else does he know?
How long has he known?
Has he been watching? Waiting? Is this town another temporary stop in his mind, another place he can step into and rearrange at will?
My stomach flips hard, panic curling tight and hot under my ribs. I swallow, but it doesn’t help. My breath goes shallow again, chest hitching. My body remembers before I do what it feels like to be cornered.
His voice slips in uninvited.
Smooth. Familiar. Confident.
I missed you.
You don’t belong here.
You’re wasting yourself.
My skin prickles as if he’s still too close, like he might be standing just outside the door, waiting for me to crack it open. I glance around the room instinctively, heart pounding, even though I know he isn’t here.
Isn’t he?
The thought is irrational and immediate and terrifying anyway.
My hands start to shake. I curl my fingers into the mattress, pressing my thumb hard into the fabric until the pressure borders on pain. Grounding. Here. Now. Ranch. Bedroom. Door locked.
He can’t just take me back.
I tell myself that, like it’s a spell.
But fear doesn’t care about logic. It cares about memory. About the way he used to step into my space, as if he owned it. The way he made me feel small and chosen and disposable all at the same time.
I feel stupid.
That part hurts almost as much as the panic.
How did I not suspect the number? The vague language. The decision not to name the kitchen. I walked right into it because part of me still wanted to believe the world could be neutral. That opportunity could exist without strings. That my past would stay buried if I didn’t dig it up myself.
Naive. Careless. Weak.
The words line up, one after another, eager to tear me down for him.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
No.
I’m not doing this right now.
I can’t afford to unravel in here while there’s laughter down the hall and people who didn’t do this to me trying to hold me gently.
So I shove it down.
Fold Marcus and the café and the sound of his voice into something small and sharp and contained. Lock it away in the mental drawer labeled later, even though I know later is going to hurt like hell.
I drag in a slow breath. Then another.
My chest still aches. My hands still tremble.
But the panic dulls enough for me to move.
Enough for me to stand.
Enough for me to pretend, for now, that he doesn’t get to follow me into this room.
Not tonight.
I have work to do.
I stand before my thoughts can catch up.
The hallway is dim, lit only by warm light spilling from the kitchen. I pause automatically, bracing myself, shoulders tightening as they always do when I step back into shared space.
Instead…
I stop short.
Silas is at the stove, cooking.
Actually cooking.
He’s stirring with focus, an apron tied crookedly around his waist, sleeves pushed up, hair falling into his eyes. Caleb stands at the counter beside him, methodical and calm, chopping vegetables with precision. A pot simmers softly nearby.
The kitchen smells incredible.
“Oh,” I say.
It comes out small.
Silas looks up immediately. Relief flashes across his face, followed by warmth so genuine it almost hurts.
“There she is,” he says. “Perfect timing.”
Caleb glances over too. He doesn’t ask questions. Just nods once. My presence is enough information for now.
Sadie’s perched on a stool at the counter, chin in her hands, eyes shining. “Miss Delaney! Uncle Silas let me taste the sauce and it’s really good and I didn’t even burn my tongue!”
Silas scoffs. “Because I warned you.”
“Barely,” she counters.
Caleb’s mouth twitches.
The knot in my chest eases another notch.
“What… what’s all this?” I ask, stepping closer.
Silas gestures grandly with his spoon. “Dinner.”
“Yes,” Caleb adds. “Prepared with intention.”
I blink. “You cooked?”
Silas places a hand over his heart. “I know. Try not to faint.”
I almost laugh.
Almost.
The sound gets stuck halfway out as my mind tries, traitorously, to drag Marcus back into the moment. The café. His voice. You don’t belong here.
I shove it down again. Harder this time.
“This wasn’t… you didn’t have to,” I say instead.
Silas softens. “We wanted to.”
Boone appears then, tired lines etched into his face, but eyes gentler when he sees me.
“Hey,” he says. “You up for dinner?”
I nod. “Yeah. I am.”
We sit together at the table a few minutes later. Plates passed. Glasses filled. Sadie narrating every bite like a professional reviewer.
“This is my favorite,” she declares, changing her mind with every mouthful.
Silas bows dramatically. Boone chuckles. Caleb pours Sadie more water without being asked.
I take a bite.
And nearly cry.
Not because it’s perfect. Not because it’s impressive.
Because it tastes like someone cared enough to slow down.
I focus on texture. On warmth. On the fact that no one is watching me to see if I’m grateful enough, talented enough, or worth the effort.
Conversation drifts easily. Sadie talks. Boone listens. Silas tells a ridiculous story. Caleb corrects him once and lets the rest slide.
Laughter grows.
Real laughter.
And all the while, I keep one careful corner of my mind sealed tight. I can feel him there. A bruise you don’t press on, but for now… he doesn’t get to sit at this table.
This is nothing like before.
This feels like family.
The realization lands softly but solidly, right in the center of my chest.
When I catch Silas watching me, I smile, real this time.
He smiles back.
And for the first time since the café, since the alley, since his voice tried to pull me backward…
I breathe.
I’m not healed.
I’m not safe from my past yet.
But tonight?
Tonight, I’m held.
And that’s enough.