Chapter 29 Adaline #2
I don’t know what happens if I let it grow, but I know I’m already choosing not to pull away.
The next morning feels quieter than usual.
Not empty, just thoughtful.
Aunt Jane insists on our daily walk, even though the air has a chill that hints at winter edging closer. She links her arm through mine with familiar determination, her steps slow but steady as we move along the path that curves around the edge of the property.
The leaves crunch softly beneath our feet, gold and rust and brown, and the sky above us is pale and open.
I let the rhythm of walking settle my nerves.
I’ve been carrying something heavy since last night, questions, realizations, feelings I haven’t dared name out loud. They press against my chest now, urging me forward.
“Aunt Jane?” I ask gently.
She hums, already anticipating it. “Yes, dear?”
I hesitate, searching for the right words. “Can I ask you something… about Hunter?”
Her steps slow, just slightly.
I notice, because I’m watching her closely now, the way you watch someone when you’re about to step into delicate territory.
She doesn’t look surprised. If anything, she looks prepared.
“Of course,” she says. “I wondered when you would.”
We walk a few more paces in silence before she speaks again, her voice measured and careful.
“He doesn’t like people digging into his past,” she says softly. “He protects those he loves.”
The words land with quiet weight.
“I know,” I admit. “I don’t want to hurt him. I just… I feel like there are pieces I don’t understand.”
Aunt Jane sighs, the sound carrying years in it. “That’s fair.”
She stops beside a bench and motions for us to sit. The wood is cool beneath my palms as we lower ourselves down, the breeze tugging lightly at our coats.
“Hunter’s mother,” she begins, “was my sister. She loved fiercely. Recklessly. And she made choices that hurt him more than she ever meant to.”
Her gaze drifts toward the trees, like she’s watching a memory instead of the present.
“She married Richard when Hunter was in high school," she continues. “A man who promised stability. Instead, he brought control and fear.” She exhales. “Hunter struggled with anger, pain, things he didn’t know how to carry.”
“The fire at the repair shop changed everything.” She exhales. “Hunter was blamed. Branded. The town decided who he was before he ever got the chance to decide for himself.”
She looks at me then, eyes sharp despite her gentle tone. “That’s all I’ll say. It’s his story to tell, if he ever chooses to.”
I nod, absorbing it. Something clicks into place with a dull, painful reminder.
The fall festival.
The way Hunter had been warm, almost gentle, when we signed the contract. The way his walls slammed back into place by evening. His refusal to let me attend. His sharp distance.
Aunt Jane watches the realization dawn on my face.
“He was afraid to let you see who he really is.”
My throat tightens. “So he wasn’t angry at me.”
“No,” she says firmly. The word reshapes everything.
He wasn’t pushing me away because I mattered less. He was pushing me away because my opinion of him mattered.
“He’s spent his whole life protecting himself,” Aunt Jane adds. “Sometimes he forgets that not everyone wants to hurt him.”
We sit in silence for a moment, the wind whispering through the trees.
“I think,” I say slowly, “I need to understand him. Fully.”
Aunt Jane’s mouth curves into a knowing smile. “Then you’ll do what you need to do.”
And suddenly, I know exactly where I’m going.
I’m still a little awed that I’m driving at all—grateful for the simple miracle of a working car, and for the man who fixed it without making me feel like I owed him anything. Like my independence mattered as much as my safety.
And maybe that’s why Rose Hills is starting to feel different to me now.
Less like a place I landed by accident, more like somewhere I might actually belong.
Without Connor looming in the background, without constantly looking over my shoulder, I can imagine a life here that’s mine—choices I get to make, paths I get to choose.
A life where I’m supported, not cornered.
Where Aunt Jane’s quiet strength and Hunter’s steady presence form something that feels dangerously close to a home I didn’t know I was missing.
Mr. Reeves’s repair shop looks the same as it always has, faded paint, oil stains on the concrete, the familiar bell jingling as I step inside. The scent of grease and metal greets me like an old friend.
Mr. Reeves looks up from the counter, surprise flashing across his face before it softens into something warm.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says. “If it isn’t Hunter’s girl.”
I smile faintly. “Hi, Mr. Reeves.”
“Call me John,” he says, waving a hand like formalities aren’t worth the trouble.
He studies me for a moment, then nods. “You look… good for him.”
The words catch me off guard.
“I’m not—” I start.
He waves it off. “I know. But I’ve seen that look in his eyes lately.” His voice drops. “Haven’t seen it since his mother left.”
My heart stutters.
“That light,” he continues quietly. “The one that says he hasn’t given up entirely.”
I swallow. “He doesn’t talk about her much.”
“No,” Mr. Reeves says.
He watches my face for a beat, as if gauging how much I already know. “You’ve heard the whispers,” he says quietly. “In a town this small, you can’t miss them.”
He exhales. “That fire? Richard set it. Insurance money.”
His jaw tightens, the words catching as if they don’t want to come out all at once.
“By the time I figured it out, he told me if I opened my mouth, he’d ruin Hunter. Said he’d make sure no college touched him. No job. Nothing.”
He exhales, slow and rough. “I thought… I thought staying quiet was protecting him.”
“You stayed quiet,” I whisper.
Mr. Reeves nods once, shame written plain across his face.
“Didn’t matter in the end. That boy was always different. Smart. Driven. Nothing was going to stop him from making something of himself.”
His voice breaks on the last word.
“But I still lost them both.” He looks down at his hands.
“Hunter.”
Then, softer… “And Jane,” he says.
He looks at me then, eyes earnest. “That’s my greatest regret.”
The truth settles over me, heavy and undeniable. Hunter wasn’t the villain. He never was.
He was a boy who lost his mother, his home, his childhood, everything, because the people who should have protected him didn’t.
And now, standing in this small repair shop, the truth I’ve always felt finally sharpens into certainty.
Rose Hills didn’t make Hunter Rexon hard. It broke him, and then blamed him for the cracks.
I step back into the sunlight moments later, heart pounding, breath unsteady.
The man I’m falling for isn’t dangerous.
He’s wounded.
And the most terrifying part of all is how desperately I want to be someone who doesn’t hurt him.