Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
DEREK
I hear her before I see her.
Not footsteps exactly—she’s too careful for that.
It’s more the shift in the house, the way the quiet rearranges itself when someone moves through it.
I lean back against the floor-to-ceiling windows at the edge of the kitchen, phone pressed to my ear, half listening to a logistics update I could recite from memory.
“Yes,” I murmur.
“No, that timeline still works.”
“Send it to legal.”
My attention isn’t on the call.
It’s on the hallway.
Audra moves slowly, blanket draped around her shoulders like she’s keeping herself anchored. She pauses at the mouth of the corridor, glances back once—checking, I think, not for permission but for reassurance. When she doesn’t see me watching, she continues on.
Good.
I don’t follow. I don’t hover.
I finish the call where I am, voice steady, professional, grounded. When I hang up, I don’t move right away. I let her have the space. Let the house do what it’s meant to do.
She finds my office first.
I know because I hear the faint shift of air as the door opens, then closes again almost immediately. Makes sense. Not much to see there.
The guest room room comes next. I catch the soft sound of running water, the click of the faucet turning off. She’s taking her time. Good. She needs that.
When she emerges again, I hear the pause.
Longer this time.
The library.
That one gets everyone.
I don’t step in. I don’t interrupt. I picture her there without trying—fingers skimming spines, head tilted, curiosity outweighing caution. That room is quiet by design. Thoughtful. It’s the place I go when I need to think instead of react.
By the time I push off the window and move down the hall, she’s already in the man cave.
I stop at the threshold.
She’s standing near the Pac-Man machine, barefoot, blanket slipping slightly as she leans in to study the screen. The lights cast soft color across her face, catching in her hair. She looks… settled. Not braced. Not ready to bolt.
Just present.
Something tightens low in my chest.
She hasn’t noticed me yet, and for a moment I let myself see it the way it is—her in this room, the one place in the house that’s unapologetically me.
The big screen is dark. The pool table untouched. One of the recliners angled open like someone left it mid-argument about whose turn it was. The snack cabinet still ajar from two nights ago..
She’s noticed the Jordan pieces. I can tell by the way her gaze moves—slow, deliberate, respectful. Not impressed. Interested.
When she laughs softly at the high-score list, I almost smile.
Of course she clocked that.
She doesn’t touch anything. She never would without asking. She just takes it in—the worn leather, the scuffed footrests, the photographs that never made it anywhere else in the house.
The ones with Mark and Alex.
The ones with no women.
That matters more than I want to admit. Her seeing me.
I step fully into the room then. Not quietly. Not loud. Just enough.
She turns, surprise flickering briefly before easing into something warmer.
“Oh,” she says. “I was just—”
“Exploring,” I finish easily.
She adjusts the blanket, a small, instinctive movement, then nods. “Your house tells stories.”
I glance around. “Some of them.”
She looks back at the Pac-Man machine. “You crushed them.”
I huff. “Alex never learns.”
Her smile lingers, thoughtful now. Curious in a way that doesn’t feel invasive—just honest.
“I didn’t realize,” she says slowly, gesturing to the room, “that this was… you.”
“It is,” I say. No qualifiers. No defenses. "Not many know this guy."
She meets my gaze, really meets it, and something unspoken passes between us. Not flirtation. Not tension.
Understanding.
For the first time since last night, I don’t feel like I’m managing a situation.
I feel like I’m standing in one.
She exhales, the fog catching up to her again, and her shoulders dip slightly.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says. “Just… tired.”
“Come sit,” I say leading her back to the living room, already moving to grab the blanket that slipped. I don’t touch her unless she sways—and even then, it’s just enough.
She sinks into the couch, the cushions giving way like they were waiting for her. I grab a pillow from the chair and slide it behind her back, adjust it once when she shifts.
She’s asleep within minutes.
I stand there longer than necessary, watching her breathe, watching the rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers curl into the blanket like it belongs to her.
I’ve brought women home before.
None of them ever saw this room.
None of them ever saw me.
And for the first time, the thought doesn’t feel like a pattern.
It feels like a line.
One I’m not interested in crossing the same way ever again.