Chapter Twenty-Seven
DELANEY
One week.
One week of Marc cooking elaborate dinners at the farmhouse because his hands needed something to do when his brain wouldn’t slow down.
One week of going back to Jem’s apartment—once alone, once with him—and finding that the room I’d been afraid to enter had started to feel less like a place I was trespassing and more like a place I was learning to find joy in.
And one week of the grant committee existing in the background of every conversation, like the scene in a story when you know something bad is about to happen, but no one mentions it directly.
And now the most important class was tonight.
I stood in the shelter’s common room twenty minutes before anyone was set to arrive and did the things I always did before a class—moved through the space slowly, checking things that didn’t need checking, letting my hands settle what my nervous system couldn’t.
The room had become something special over these past few weeks.
Not just a repurposed common area with yoga mats—it had become a place with intention and a place for hope to grow.
I’d strung fairy lights along the window ledges and across the ceiling.
The diffuser running with the blend I’d curated for this group of classes; something grounding.
Crystals were scattered on the table near the door; the basket of smaller ones ready for participants to take home with them.
I’d lowered the overhead lights, and the room had transformed from a more institutional look to something that felt, genuinely, like a place you came to breathe.
People around town were already asking if we’d add more classes to the calendar when the initial four were over.
I thought about Mia and Tucker. I’d seen them on Main Street yesterday—the girl and the dog, both of them moving with the inner joy of a match that had recognized itself.
Tucker’s tail was thwacking at the same speed as it had when he decided Mia was his person in the middle of the last yoga class.
I stood on the sidewalk watching them until they turned the corner and felt my heart squeeze at what we had just accomplished after one class.
This is what it’s for, I’d thought.
And I thought it again now, standing in the silent room.
Theo arrived before I’d finished my walkthrough, clipboard already in hand. From the tired pinch to his brow, he looked like he was running entirely on adrenaline and checklist completion.
He didn’t stop moving. Water station—checked. Animal area—checked. A quick, low exchange with one of the volunteers, his voice tight and efficient.
I understood him. I recognized the specific quality of his anxiety—the need for structure when everything felt like it was outside of your control. I’d been living in that particular register for a week.
I didn’t go to him. I wanted to. Instead, I caught his eye from across the room and gave him a single nod—I see you, we’ve got this—and he held it for a moment before turning back to his checklist.
Theo needed to know someone was paying attention.
I was paying attention.
Then the air changed before I saw him. That was the only way I knew how to describe it—some shift in the quality of air in the room, a charge that hadn’t been there a second ago.
My skin registered it before my eyes did.
By the time I turned toward the door, my heart had already done its small involuntary leap of He’s here!
Marc crossed the room with the brisk efficiency he used when he was managing himself carefully. His gaze found mine immediately—he always found me right away, I’d noticed and waited for it to happen. The adjustment.
His pace didn’t break; it was more refined, shortened steps, controlled breathing, attention locking in on me with that precise, deliberate focus he applied when something mattered.
Like I mattered.
Everything else fell away.
He’d already set his priority.
And I was it.
Then he slowed. Not visibly. Not in any way the room would clock. Just the specific energy that happened when we were in the same space, and both of us knew it.
He stopped in front of me. Pressed his forehead to mine.
It lasted three seconds. Maybe four. His hand settled at my lower back, and we stood there in the middle of the common room with everything at stake around us.
I felt the week land all at once—the dinners, the apartment, the nights at the farmhouse, his hands going still when things were too much, and mine finding them when they did—and something that had been building for longer than I’d admitted to myself finally gave itself a name.
I love him.
Not an earth-shattering revelation. Not a lightning strike. More like turning around and finding that it had always been there, that the shape of it had been visible since almost the beginning if I’d been willing to look directly at it, and now that I was looking, there it was.
Inevitable. Already true.
I breathed in the joy that filled me. I tempered the part that wanted to shout it. I pulled back the instinct to grab his face between my hands and kiss him while saying the words.
But now was not the time.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Fine.”
The word landed flat. I’d learned his tells the same way he’d learned mine—gradually, by paying attention, by filing away the small signals his careful composure gave off when something was running underneath it.
I turned to face him fully. My hands cupped his shoulders, and I felt the tension there, controlled and tight, the physical evidence of a week of contained anxiety.
“Kingsley.”
He looked at me. The worry in his eyes was real and unguarded in a way he didn’t let most people see. I understood what it cost him to be vulnerable, and I took that seriously—to the point that I’d tucked it away and treasured this moment, knowing I was among the few.
“Tonight, no matter what happens, we’re in it together,” I said. “Whatever the committee decides doesn’t change what you’ve done for this shelter. It doesn’t change the benefit this program has. And it doesn’t change what Theo knows about how you’ve shown up for him.”
His stare was unblinking. For a second, I almost swiped my hand in front of his face to get some kind of reaction, but then a slight smile tipped up the corner of his lips. He was on the same page as me, even if we hadn’t said it.
He pressed a brief kiss to my lips. “You’re the only thing holding me together right now.”
“Then I’ll keep doing that,” I said. “Go get Theo, and get up front to greet the committee members.”
He nodded, and with one last glance at me, he left the room. On his way out, he passed Cheryl and lifted his hand to return her high-five, which she did without breaking stride. Three weeks ago, she’d threatened to bury him in a location nobody would find. Now look at them.
Cheryl reached me a moment later, laminated sheet of poses already in hand. Her eyes flicked over the room once like she was confirming everything was exactly where she expected it to be. Checking, adjusting, already three steps ahead of anything that might go wrong.
“Ready?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
She winked at me. “Perfect. Me neither. Let’s do this.”
We ran through the poses and modifications—she’d lead the flow from the front, I’d circulate and handle the committee interaction directly. I wanted Marc focused on the animals and Theo, not managing a conversation with two people holding clipboards. That was my job tonight.
“The new dog,” Cheryl said, consulting her sheet.
“Noble.”
“Three legs.”
“He’s very enthusiastic about it.”
She looked at me over the laminated sheet. “Define enthusiastic.”
“He tries to go everywhere and has limited steering. He was at the bachelor auction.”
She hesitated. “And we’re introducing him tonight because—”
“I know it’s a roll of the dice, but he’s been here for eight months and deserves a chance. Maybe the committee will love that we include animals of all abilities,” I suggested.
Cheryl glanced at the ceiling briefly. Then she wrote something on her sheet and nodded. “Fine. Noted. Moving on.”
I loved her so much.
Marc came back with the committee members fifteen minutes before the class was scheduled to start.
Mr. Geraldi—the head of the committee—took on the role of observer today. Clipboard ready and pen already uncapped. He introduced himself with a firm handshake and eyes that were already moving around the room, taking it all in and making internal notations.
Ms. Kline—the participant—was friendlier.
She’d worn actual athletic wear, which I registered as a hopeful sign and immediately told myself not to put too much weight into.
She asked about modifications for tight hamstrings.
I gave her three options. She nodded, and I was delighted to see how seriously she took my suggestions.
I talked to them both while Marc held back slightly, present but giving me space to do my thing. I knew without him saying it that he was being deliberate in not intervening—showing his trust in me, and I stood a little straighter because of it.
The voices in the outer hallway arrived at exactly ten minutes to our start time.
I exhaled. They’re early, I thought. I hoped the committee noticed and made notes about it without me having to point it out.
Robert and Laura Kingsley came through the door first. The tight muscles in my shoulders released at the sight of them.
I hadn’t expected that—hadn’t anticipated that the presence of Marc’s parents would land in my body as relief.
But there it was. They were here because their son needed them to be here, and they had simply come, no announcement, no production, just the quiet fact of showing up.
Laura found Marc immediately. She crossed to him with purpose, pulled him to the side, and said something quietly, laying her hand on his arm. His face relaxed, his posture straightened, and his smile grew wider.