Chapter 24
Izzy
Raze didn’t speak as we walked back toward the house.
He kept one hand at the small of my back, firm and steady, guiding rather than pushing. Possessive without being rough. Protective without asking permission to be. I was acutely aware of the weight of that hand the entire time, of the way it never once left me until we stepped into the foyer.
Only then did he let go.
I realized I’d been holding my breath since the confrontation ended.
My body was calm. Unusually calm.
I wasn’t particularly upset that Nathan had turned up. That, more than anything, should have bothered me. But it didn’t.
If anything, tonight gave me something I hadn’t realized I was still waiting for.
When he vanished from my life, it had left things feeling incomplete.
Abrupt. Like a conversation cut off mid-sentence.
There had been no confrontation, no explanation, no moment where I could look him in the eye and see him clearly for what he was.
Just silence. And confusion.
But standing there tonight, listening to him speak, watching the desperation in his face and the entitlement in his tone, something inside me settled in a way it hadn’t before.
He hadn’t left because he was hurt. He hadn’t disappeared because he needed space or because of anything I had done.
He had left because it was convenient for him.
Because he was dealing drugs while telling me he was broke. Because he was borrowing money while pretending he was struggling, and leaning on me—financially, emotionally, practically—like his survival depended on it.
And the truth was, in many ways, it had.
He sponged off me. My space. My stability. My patience. My belief that he just needed time to “get back on his feet.” Every excuse, every apology, every late-night confession about how hard things were for him now sounded hollow when I replayed them with what I knew.
Leaving without a word hadn’t been cowardice alone. It had been easier to disappear than explain and admit he had been using me the entire time.
Seeing him tonight stripped away whatever lingering doubt I’d been carrying. The way he looked at me. The way he spoke. The way his desperation bled into every sentence. It confirmed what I had only half-accepted before.
That part of my life wasn’t paused. It was over. Because I finally saw him without the version of him I used to defend in my head.
And when I shut the door in his face tonight, it didn’t feel dramatic or cruel. It felt appropriate. Necessary. Final.
He had wronged me, lied to me, leaned on me until I was emotionally exhausted, and still expected access to me as if nothing had changed.
That realization didn’t hurt the way I thought it would. It clarified things. If anything, what I felt now wasn’t sadness. It was something sharper. Cleaner.
If anything, I felt… wired. Alive in a way that made my chest feel light and tight at the same time.
I shouldn’t have been excited. I knew that.
On a rational level, I knew how toxic the situation had been. Nathan showing up. Raze nearly killing him. The sheer intensity of the moment.
And yet, as I replayed it in my head, what stuck with me wasn’t fear. It was the way Raze had stood in front of me like a wall. Like a line no one was allowed to cross. He hadn’t even let Nathan speak to me properly or freely. Not without consequence.
The memory sent a rush of heat through my chest.
He protected me.
It didn’t feel like he did it out of obligation or politeness. He didn’t have to do that. He wanted to. Because, somewhere along the way, I had started to matter to him.
“You’re quiet.”
I glanced at him where he stood, a few feet away, his jaw tight and shoulders still rigid, like the tension hadn’t fully left his body yet.
His shirt hung open at the collar, sleeves pushed back, forearms still faintly flexed as if he hadn’t quite come down from whatever storm had surged through him outside.
“I’m angry,” he snapped.
I watched him for a moment longer than I meant to.
There was something deeply enthralling about the way he’d reacted out there. Not reckless or random. Just… absolute. Decisive. Protective in a way that didn’t feel performative or exaggerated. And I realized in that moment that sometimes, all a person needed was someone else to look after them.
He hadn’t hesitated. He hadn’t negotiated. He’d simply stepped in and drawn a boundary.
For me.
I didn’t want to overanalyze it. I knew how unforgiving that could be—reading too much into gestures, building meaning where there might only be instinct.
But still… he wouldn’t even let Nathan speak to me. That had to mean something. Didn’t it?
I moved closer, stopping just in front of him. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, to see the faint tension still lingering in his expression.
“You don’t have to worry about him anymore,” I informed him.
His eyes dropped to mine immediately.
“He’ll be back.
The certainty in his voice left no room for argument. My chest tightened.
“No, he won’t,” I assured him.
“You have no idea what I’ll fucking do to him if he even tries to see you again.”
There it was again. That line. That invisible line he drew around me without ever announcing it.
Something inside me softened. I reached for his hand without thinking about it, my fingers curling around his. He didn’t pull away. His grip closed around mine almost instantly, like the contact grounded him.
“I’m not scared of him,” I said.
“I am,” he ground out.
I blinked. “You are?”
His thumb brushed absently over my knuckles.
“Of what desperation makes men do,” he clarified.
That silenced me. Because he wasn’t wrong. Nathan had looked desperate. Unstable. Unpredictable.
And yet, standing here now, the fear still didn’t come. Not the way it should have. Not the way logic insisted it ought to.
Instead, what lingered was the memory of Raze’s voice when he’d told Nathan to leave me alone.
The way he’d said, she’s mine.
The way he’d looked at me when I spoke. Like my words carried weight, and my decision mattered. It was a strange feeling, being defended like that.
I stepped closer without realising, my free hand resting lightly against his chest. His heart was steady beneath my palm. Strong in a way that made the contrast between his calm and the violence he’d nearly unleashed earlier feel even more significant.
Silence stretched between us, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy in a different way now. Charged. Focused.
“Izzy.” My name was rough on his tongue.
I tilted my head up just enough to meet his eyes fully.
I’d only known him a couple of weeks. That fact should have felt alarming.
Whatever this was between us should have felt rushed.
Reckless. Illogical. Instead, time felt irrelevant.
Because time with him didn’t move normally.
It condensed. Intensified. Filled space in a way that made it feel like I’d known him far longer than I actually had.
Long enough to trust him, to rely on him.
“I don’t want to overthink this,” I admitted softly.
His hand rose to my waist, resting there with certainty.
“Then don’t,” he replied.
My breath caught slightly when his other hand came up, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear with surprising gentleness. The contrast between the man who had nearly broken someone outside and the man standing in front of me now was disorienting in the best possible way.
“I think,” I searched for the words as my fingers sunk into his shirt, “this is what it’s supposed to feel like.”
His brow lowered slightly. “What is?”
I swallowed.
“Being seen by someone.”
His hand tightened at my waist.
My heart stuttered once, hard enough that I felt it in my throat.
“I’ve only known you a few weeks,” I went on, almost more to myself than to him. “But it doesn’t feel like weeks. It feels like…” I hesitated before finishing, “like you’ve been here a lot longer.”
His forehead dipped until it nearly touched mine.
“Careful,” he murmured.
“Why?”
“Because attachment built quickly tends to be strong.”
I let out a small breath that almost turned into a laugh.
“I’m already there,” I admitted.
The words hung between us, honest and unfiltered.
His hand slid slightly higher along my back, pulling me closer until there was barely any space left between us. Inevitable.
My hands moved to his shoulders, grounding myself in the solid reality of him. The warmth. The steadiness. The quiet intensity that never seemed to switch off, even when he was calm.
He kissed me then. Slow. Delicate. Feeling. Like he was fully present in the moment rather than overtaken by it.
I kissed him back just as carefully, my fingers tightening slightly at the fabric of his shirt as his hand spread across my back, anchoring me in place. The world outside the room faded in the way it always seemed to when he focused on me like this.
His thumb traced slow circles against my waist as the kiss deepened, steady rather than frantic, and I leaned into him, letting the warmth of the moment settle around us.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead resting lightly against mine again, my breathing was softer, calmer than before.
“Let’s go back to bed,” he suggested.
And as his arms settled more securely around me and the house returned to its stillness, I realized something with a clarity that didn’t scare me the way it should have.
I couldn’t imagine going back to a life where he wasn’t in it.