Chapter 4-Esme
I don’t remember agreeing to stay.
Not really.
One minute I’m standing near this huge ranch house with a great-looking porch, my heart halfway up my throat, my past staring me down with those storm-cloud eyes—and the next, he’s walking away like I didn’t just flip my entire world upside down.
“Follow the road past the south fence,” a man, Micah he said his name was, told me.
Benji just walked away, not even looking at me.
And that was it.
No warmth.
No softness.
No, hey, sorry about Benji being a jackass.
Just a curt command followed by directions.
Like I’m a delivery.
Like I’m temporary.
I mean, I know I am—far as he’s concerned, anyway.
I swallow hard and nod, because what else am I supposed to do?
Bit squeezes my arm before I leave, her smile softer now, less starstruck and more kind.
“You’ll be okay,” she says quietly. “I promise.”
I want to believe her.
I really do.
But promises and I?
We don’t exactly have the best history.
Still, I thank her, grab my bag, and climb back into my van.
The engine rumbles to life beneath me, familiar and steady, and for a second, I just sit there, hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead.
“You’ve done harder things than this,” I whisper.
Have I?
Because this? This feels like driving straight into the heart of something I barely survived the first time.
I ease the van down the dirt road, following his directions.
Past the south fence.
The land stretches wide around me, rolling and green and alive in that late-summer way—thick grass, low-hanging heat, the hum of insects, and the sound of cattle shifting somewhere out in the pasture.
It’s quiet.
Peaceful.
And I’m stunned because I didn’t know places like this existed in New Jersey.
But it does. And it’s the kind of place people come to build something real.
The kind of place I once thought would be mine.
Mine and his.
I grip the wheel tighter.
Don’t go there.
Too late.
The road curves gently, and then—I see it.
The house.
My breath leaves me in a rush.
“No,” I whisper.
Because I know this house.
Not this exact one—not the boards and nails and real, standing structure—but the shape of it.
The bones.
The way it sits slightly back from the road, like it belongs to the land instead of interrupting it.
The wraparound porch.
The wide front windows.
The slope of the roof.
The rocking chairs.
The potted herbs lining the walkway.
My heart starts pounding so hard it almost hurts.
“Oh my God.”
I pull the van to a slow stop, gravel crunching under the tires, and just stare.
This isn’t just a house.
This is the house.
The one we used to whisper about late at night, tangled up in cheap sheets in that tiny military house we rented.
The one we planned in half-joking, half-serious conversations when the world felt small and far away.
“I want a big kitchen,” I’d said once, tracing patterns on his chest.
“Like, big big. Enough space to cook and dance at the same time.”
“You don’t dance,” he’d teased.
“I do if no one’s watching.”
“I’ll always be watching,” he’d said, voice low, serious in a way that made my stomach flip.
I blink hard.
Because there it is.
The big kitchen.
Even from outside, I can see it through the front windows—open, wide, moonlight spilling across counters that look like they were built for more than just function.
Built for living.
For laughing.
For us.
My hands start to shake.
I push the door open and step out of the van slowly, like if I move too fast, this will disappear.
Like it’s not real.
The air is warm against my skin, the scent of wood and fresh construction lingering faintly around the place.
It’s not completely finished.
I can see that now.
Tools still stacked near the side. A ladder leaning against the porch. Some trim not quite done.
Bare patches of earth where landscaping hasn’t been finished.
But it’s close.
So damn close.
And it’s perfect.
A choked sound escapes me before I can stop it.
“He built it,” I whisper.
Of course he did.
Of course Benjamin Gunner would take a dream and turn it into something solid, something real, something you could stand in, and touch.
He always was like that.
Take an idea.
Make it work.
Only, well, he built it without me.
The realization hits like a slow, sinking blade.
All those nights.
All those plans.
All those promises whispered into the dark like they were unbreakable.
And he came here.
To this land.
To this life.
And made it happen.
Without me.
I press a hand to my chest, trying to steady the ache spreading through it.
“Don’t cry,” I murmur. “Not now. Not here.”
But my eyes burn anyway.
Because I can see it.
See us in it.
Me in that kitchen, barefoot and laughing, burning something while he leans against the counter pretending not to smile.
Him coming in from the fields, dusty and tired, dropping a kiss on my head like it’s second nature.
Us on that porch, watching storms roll in over the hills, his hand wrapped around mine like it belongs there.
A life.
A whole damn life.
That we almost had.
My throat tightens.
And then something else hits me.
Harder.
Colder.
Because if this is the house we planned together?
If he built this from those late-night conversations?
Then he didn’t forget.
He didn’t move on clean.
He didn’t erase me.
He carried it with him.
All of it.
Just like I did.
“Shit,” I whisper, dragging a hand down my face.
That changes things.
Or maybe it makes them worse.
I don’t even know anymore.
I force myself to move, climbing the steps onto the porch.
The wood creaks under my weight, solid and real beneath my feet.
There’s a key under the mat.
Of course, there is.
Because Benji is nothing if not predictable when it comes to practical things.
My fingers tremble just a little as I pick it up.
“This is insane,” I murmur to myself.
I unlock the door and step inside.
The air is cooler in here, shaded from the lingering heat outside. It smells like sawdust and fresh paint and something faintly familiar beneath it all—like him.
I close the door behind me and just stand there.
Taking it in.
The open floor plan.
The wide space.
The light.
It’s not furnished fully yet.
A couch.
A table.
A few pieces here and there.
Enough to live in but not finished.
Like he stopped just short.
Like something kept him from making it complete.
My chest tightens again.
I walk slowly into the kitchen, running my fingers over the edge of the counter.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper.
And I hate that.
Hate that he made it perfect.
Hate that I still want it.
Hate that a part of me—stupid, broken, hopeful—wonders what it would feel like to stay.
I laugh softly, shaking my head.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Esme.”
You’re here for one thing.
Get the papers signed.
Get closure.
Leave.
That’s the plan.
That’s always been the plan.
Only now?
Standing in the middle of the life we almost had—I’m not so sure it’s going to be that simple.
Because the truth?
I never really left. Never gave up on the dream.
Not really. Not in my heart.
And judging by what I’m standing in right now—neither did he.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
I’m still standing in the middle of the kitchen, fingers brushing the edge of the counter like I need to convince myself it’s real, when I hear the door open behind me.
I don’t turn right away.
I know who it is.
I can feel him.
The air shifts.
It tightens.
Like the house itself knows he’s here.
My pulse starts climbing before I even face him.
Slowly, I turn.
And there he is.
Benjamin Gunner.
Hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans like he’s holding himself back from something. From me.
God.
He looks so much like the man I used to love.
My breath catches.
Benji was always handsome.
He still is.
He looks good. Really damn good.
Better than I remember.
Older, maybe.
Harder around the edges.
There’s a roughness to him now that wasn’t there before, something carved in by time and distance and whatever the hell he’s been through since I last saw him.
But the rest?
Still him.
That broad, solid frame that fills a room without trying.
Shoulders so wide they stretch the fabric of his worn T-shirt, the cotton pulled tight across muscle that looks like it was built for work, for weight, for endurance.
His arms are tanned, corded, strong.
And those eyes—God.
Those impossibly dark blue eyes with shards of light cutting through them.
They lock on mine from across the room, dark and intense, glittering like storm-lit sapphires, and just like that I’m right back there.
Three years ago.
Standing too close. Wanting too much.
My mouth goes dry.
Traitorously, it waters a second later.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to stay where I am, even though every instinct in my body says go to him.
He doesn’t move any closer.
Just stands there.
Watching me.
Like he’s trying to figure something out.
Or maybe trying not to.
“You found it,” he says finally, voice low, rougher than I remember.
“Yeah,” I manage, my voice softer than I want it to be. “Hard to miss.”
My gaze drifts around the space again, then back to him.
“You built it.”
It’s not a question.
Something flickers in his expression.
Gone before I can name it.
“Yeah,” he says.
That’s it.
Just yeah.
Like it didn’t take years.
Like it didn’t take everything.
Silence stretches between us again, thick and loaded with everything we’re not saying.
I shift my weight, suddenly aware of how small I feel in this big, open space.
“So, um, where am I staying? Spare room?” I ask, because I need something—anything—to anchor this moment before it swallows me whole.
His jaw tightens, just a little.
“Yeah.”
Another beat passes.
Then he jerks his chin toward the hallway.
“Room’s down there. First door on the left.”
I blink.
“But that’s the main bedroom. It’s yours, isn’t it?”
Something sharp flashes in his eyes.
Then it dulls.
“Yeah. Only finished room in the house.”
I hesitate.
“Then where are you going to sleep?”
His gaze snaps back to mine, something unreadable moving through it—something heavy.
“Don’t worry about it. Just go to sleep, Ezzy.”
The nickname hits me like a physical thing.
My breath stutters.
No one has called me that in years.
“Benji—”
“It’s late,” he cuts in, not harsh, but firm enough to stop me. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
Morning.
Like this can wait.
Like this isn’t already clawing its way through both of us.
I study him for a second longer, searching for something—anything—that tells me where I stand with him.
But he’s locked down.
Walls up.
Guarded.
Still him.
Always him.
“Okay,” I say quietly.
Because what else is there to say?
I turn and head down the hallway, each step feeling heavier than it should.
The bedroom door is exactly where he said it would be.
Of course it is.
I pause with my hand on the knob, heart pounding in my chest.
Then I push it open.
And step inside.
It’s simple.
Clean.
Masculine.
But there are touches here and there that make my throat tighten—a lamp that looks like something I once pointed out in a store, the layout of the furniture just a little too familiar, like it was built from memory.
From us.
I close the door softly behind me and lean back against it, pressing my eyes shut.
“Get it together,” I whisper.
Because this?
This is dangerous.
Not the house.
Not the situation.
Him.
Always him.
And as I slide into his bed, pulling the covers up around me, breathing in a scent that is unmistakably Benji—soap, sweat, something warm and grounding—I realize something I’ve been trying not to admit since I pulled onto this land.
I came here for a signature.
For closure.
For an ending.
But lying here now?
Wrapped in the ghost of everything we used to be?
I’m not so sure that’s what I’m going to get.
Not even close.
And before I fall asleep with tears tracking down my cheeks I wonder if coming here is more trouble than I bargained for.