Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Cole
It was pushing ten by the time the house finally settled.
Mac had come down the hallway a little after nine, barefoot and already half-asleep, her hair loose around her shoulders. She’d paused at Star’s door, leaned in just long enough to check her breathing, then turned her attention on me.
“She hasn’t moved,” Mac said quietly.
“She needs it,” I replied.
Mac nodded, but she lingered anyway. “If she wakes up—”
“I’ve got it,” I said.
She opened her mouth, clearly ready to argue.
I cut her off before she could. “You need to be up early. You’ve got work.”
She frowned. “So do you.”
I nodded to where Star was sleeping. “She’s it.”
Her eyes flicked toward Star’s room again, worry written all over her face. “If she gets dizzy—”
“I’ll get you,” I said. “Unless I can handle it. Which I probably can.”
That earned me a reluctant sigh. “You’re stubborn,” she muttered.
“Takes one to know one.”
Mac shook her head, but there was a smile tugging at her mouth as she turned toward the stairs. “Wake me if you need me.”
“I will.”
She hesitated at the first step, then glanced back. “Thank you. At first, when I met you bikers, it was weird how… protective you guys are, but it’s…”
“Nice?” I offered.
She nodded once. “Yeah.”
Mac disappeared upstairs a moment later. The house went quiet in that way it only does late at night—settled, resting, like it was holding its breath.
I stretched out on the couch, boots kicked off, and my cut folded neatly over the arm. The television glowed quietly in front of me as I flipped through channels, none of them holding my attention.
My focus kept drifting down the hallway.
Star’s door was still open, but she was out like a light.
Half an hour passed.
I was halfway through an episode when I heard it: the soft shuffle of bare feet against the hardwood. Slow. Careful.
I was on my feet before my brain caught up.
Star appeared at the end of the hallway, one hand brushing the wall for balance, and her hair mussed from sleep.
I crossed the space between us in two steps.
“Hey,” I said gently, and slid an arm around her waist just as she wobbled.
She startled slightly, then relaxed into me.
“Done resting your eyes?” I asked.
She laughed softly. “I don’t even think I can call that resting my eyes.” She tipped her head back to look at me. “I passed the hell out.”
I chuckled. “Yeah. You did.”
She steadied herself, but I didn’t let go right away. Her eyes lingered on mine before she cleared her throat.
“I’m starving,” she admitted.
“Good,” I said. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“Because dinner’s still sitting in the kitchen.”
Her eyes widened. “You didn’t eat?”
I shrugged. “I was waiting for you.”
Her mouth fell open. “Cole.”
“What?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No.”
She pulled back just enough to stare at me like I’d lost my mind. “You didn’t eat dinner because I was sleeping?”
“I wasn’t hungry,” I lied.
She crossed her arms. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
I grinned. “You’re outraged.”
“I am,” she said. “That’s my favorite meal.”
“I know.”
“And you didn’t eat it.”
“I know.”
She huffed. “Unbelievable.”
“Come on,” I said, steering her gently toward the kitchen. “You want to sit at the table or the couch?”
She considered it for a moment. “Kitchen. I don’t trust myself to balance food on my lap.”
“Smart.”
I eased her into one of the chairs and made sure she was settled before turning toward the counter. I could feel her watching me as I pulled the plates Mac had made up for us out of the fridge.
When everything was ready, I carried both plates to the table and set them down before us. She took one bite and sighed. “Yep,” she said. “Still perfect.”
“I figured.”
We ate slowly, conversation drifting between nothing and everything—stories about work, about Mac’s chaos, about the ol’ ladies and the inevitable craziness of the planned girls’ night.
“Any more leads?” she asked quietly after a while.
I shook my head. “Nothing solid.”
That was true enough.
She nodded, but I could see the tension flicker behind her eyes. The fatigue was creeping back in.
“You’re fading,” I said.
She shook her head stubbornly. “Not yet.”
“Star—”
“I need to stay up a little longer,” she said. “I don’t want to just sleep through everything.”
I didn’t argue.
When we finished eating, she insisted on helping clear the table. I stayed close, ready to step in if she wobbled, but she managed fine.
Back in the living room, I flopped back onto the couch and grabbed the remote.
She eyed the screen. “What are you watching?”
“The Golden Girls.”
She laughed. “I never thought you’d be one for The Golden Girls.”
I shrugged. “I blame the ol’ ladies. And my mom.”
“That tracks.”
We settled in together, watching the Chicken Little episode. She commented on Blanche’s outfit. I argued that Sophia was the real MVP. She yawned and tried to hide it.
“You should go to bed,” I said.
“After this episode.”
Fifteen minutes later, her head tipped sideways, coming to rest against my shoulder.
Her breathing evened out.
She was out.
I sat there for a moment, afraid to move, listening to the soft rhythm of her sleep. Then I carefully shifted, sliding one arm under her knees and the other around her back.
She stirred slightly but didn’t wake as I carried her down the hallway and into her room.
I laid her down gently, tugged the blanket up around her shoulders, and brushed her hair back from her face.
She looked peaceful like this.
Safe.
I stood there a moment longer than necessary, then turned out the light and left the door open.
Back on the couch, I settled in and stared at the ceiling.
This wasn’t a hardship.
It wasn’t a job.
It was exactly where I was supposed to be.
And I wasn’t going anywhere.