Chapter 42 Caleb
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Caleb
Night settles over Sunridge as a blanket somebody laid down carefully.
The house doesn’t go quiet all at once. It softens in layers. Sadie’s footsteps disappearing down the hallway, Boone’s low voice turning into a murmur, and then nothing, Silas finally giving up on “just one more” glass of water.
Eventually, it’s just me in the living room.
And Delaney.
She’s on the couch with her legs tucked under her, hair loose from the day, one of Boone’s throw blankets over her shoulders as if the house did it for her when she wasn’t looking.
She’s been pretending she’s fine since Silas brought her home.
Smiling in small doses, answering questions with the least amount of truth possible, moving because if she stays busy, whatever chased her won’t catch up.
I know that trick.
I’ve used it.
She fights sleep at first. You can see it in the way she blinks too hard, the way she keeps trying to sit upright even when her body is clearly done. She shifts closer without meaning to. Shoulder brushing my arm. Then her head tips onto my chest because gravity finally wins.
I don’t move.
I just… let her.
Her breath slows. The tension in her shoulders eases a fraction; her body believes in safety even when her brain doesn’t. I slide a hand into her hair, stroking slowly, not trying to make anything happen. Just keeping her anchored. Keeping her here.
It feels stupidly intimate. Not in a heated way.
In a real way.
The kind that makes you think about futures even when you’re not trying to.
I stare at the dark window, the faint reflection of us in the glass. Me sitting too still. Her asleep against me. The living room lamp throwing warm light over her face. A picture on the wall of Sadie at the county fair, missing two front teeth and holding a ribbon as if she won the whole world.
My mind drifts, traitorous.
How would it look if we stopped pretending this is temporary?
If Boone stopped bracing for impact every second he’s awake. If Silas stopped trying to charm pain into submission. If Delaney stopped holding herself, thinking she’s one wrong step from being punished for existing.
If we… chose it. Really chose it.
I’m halfway into that thought when her phone lights up.
A soft buzz against the couch cushion. The screen flashes bright in the dim room.
I look away automatically. It’s none of my business.
Then it buzzes again.
And again.
I keep my hand in her hair. Keep my eyes on the window. Keep pretending I don’t hear the faint vibration that feels too urgent to be nothing.
But the screen is bright. The text preview is big enough that my brain catches it before I can stop it.
I’ve been thinking about you all evening.
My stomach tightens.
Another buzz.
I wish today had gone differently.
My hand stills in her hair for half a second before I force it to move again, pretending I didn’t just feel ice cold slide under my ribs.
I tell myself it could be anyone. An old friend. A misunderstanding.
But then another message flashes.
We should talk tomorrow. Somewhere quieter.
That one lands wrong.
Not professional. Not casual. Not neutral.
It feels intimate.
I swallow, throat suddenly tight.
Delaney doesn’t stir. She sleeps on, breathing warm against my shirt because the world didn’t just tilt for her.
I don’t touch her phone. I don’t pick it up. I don’t try to read more.
But I can’t pretend I didn’t see what I saw.
My mind tries to make it make sense and fails.
Because earlier today, she’d been crying and then put herself back together with sheer will. Silas looked ready to drive his truck through someone’s front door when he found her in that state.
And now her phone is lighting up, and somebody expects her to answer.
I sit there a long time, breathing slowly, letting my thoughts circle without landing. The kind of circling that turns into a spiral if you aren’t careful.
Delaney shifts in her sleep, a small sound in her throat, and her cheek presses more fully against my chest. Trust, unintentional and complete.
I ease her up carefully and carry her down the hall to her room, laying her on the bed like she weighs nothing. Her phone goes on the nightstand where she’ll see it when she wakes. I tuck her bed sheets tighter around her shoulders to try to keep the world out.
Then I stand.
My joints pop quietly. The house creaks, settling around me.
I go into the kitchen, grab a glass of water I don’t actually want, and lean against the counter, staring at nothing. My mind keeps replaying the way her body locked up when she came back. The way she refused to say what happened.
The way her phone is telling me there’s something else in her life right now.
Against my better judgment, I pull my phone out.
I don’t search her name. I don’t dig through anything I shouldn’t. I don’t even really know what I’m looking for.
But one name pops into my head anyway.
Dottie.
Because Dottie lives on social media. Because Dottie knows everyone’s business before they do. Because if something moved through town today, Dottie probably posted it with a filter and a caption.
I open Facebook. Search her page. It loads fast.
And my stomach drops.
There’s a post from earlier today, just hours ago. A series of photos in town. Smiling faces. Sunlight. Coffee cups. That casual, curated happiness people want to show off.
Dottie is front and center, grinning.
And beside her…
A man.
I recognize him immediately, and I hate that I do.
Sharp haircut. Expensive jacket. City posture. The kind of polished that doesn’t belong here unless it’s trying to sell something.
The caption reads: Unexpected run-ins and good conversations. Sometimes the past circles back.
My jaw tightens hard enough that my teeth ache.
Past.
Circles back.
I scroll, heart pounding, and see his name in the tags.
Marcus Hale.
The name hits as a punch even though I’ve never met him. Because I’ve heard it. Half sentences, careful gaps, the way Delaney’s voice tightens when the past gets too close.
I lock my phone and set it on the counter because it burned me.
I stand there in the quiet kitchen, breathing through the heavy pressure building in my chest.
So that’s what today was.
Not a bad mood. Not a random panic.
Something found her.
Someone.
And she didn’t tell us…
I stare into the dark, listening to the house breathe.
I don’t know what the hell is going on.
But I know this: if someone is trying to drag her back into a story that hurt her, they’re going to have to get through us.
And I’m not in the habit of letting anything I care about get taken.