Chapter Thirty Three
Even If It Breaks Me
F our days of radio silence.
Four days where I stewed, panicked, and spiraled.
Four days where Kade William Archer didn’t say a word to me after I left him sleeping on the couch, snoring quietly, and wrapped in a soft blanket that smelled like us .
I could have called him, or shown up, but honestly, in those four days, I lost my damn mind.
Because when you’ve spent your whole life learning that love is conditional, that people leave, and that no matter how careful you are, you’re never quite enough.
You learn that silence doesn’t feel like space—it feels like punishment.
And it didn’t matter that he’d kissed me like I was air and he was drowning. Didn’t matter that he’d touched me like I was sacred, murmured things that felt too sweet to be lies, or pulled me into his arms like he wasn’t planning to let go.
The moment I walked out that door and didn’t hear from him? My heart whispered the one thing it always does.
Of course he didn’t call.
Why would he?
Why would anyone fight for the girl who was never chosen? Not as a baby in the hospital. Not in a string of foster homes. Not in relationships, or friendships, or families that always left just enough room for her to feel the edge.
People don’t hold on to girls like me.
They forget us.
They let us go.
And if they do come back, it’s only long enough to remind us why we never should’ve believed in the first place.
I tried to rationalize it. Tried to believe he was busy, or overwhelmed, or sorting things out in that quiet, broody way of his. But the longer I went without hearing from him, the easier it became to rewrite the weekend into something shameful.
Sure, he’d taken care of me. Fed me. Bathed me.
Held my hair back when I puked and wrapped me in his arms like I was something fragile.
He’d drawn a bath, blow-dried my hair, rubbed my back when my migraine hit like a freight train, and shut out the world with blackout curtains and whispered questions in the dark.
And when my alarm went off that Monday morning, tearing me from the warm cocoon of him? Climbing out of his bed felt like ripping off my own skin. Getting dressed in my clothes from the bar was its own special kind of torture. Walking out the door nearly broke me.
But I did it. I told myself he’d wake up and call. That we’d talk. That everything he said, everything he promised, wouldn’t turn to ash the second I was gone.
Four days.
That’s all it took for the self-sabotage to kick in—loud and cruel, whispering things I’ve spent my whole life trying not to believe.
You’re too much.
You’re not enough.
You made it up.
He used you.
He regrets it.
He. Regrets. You.
By the time my phone rang this afternoon, in between house visits, and his name lit up my screen, I was too far gone. And when my emotions get the best of me, I get angry. I get snappy and sassy and pissed off.
When I declined the first call, it wasn’t a mistake. And when he called again, and again, until I finally answered—I was short and painfully cold, my voice held together by threads that were already unraveling.
But then he brokenly rasped the only three words that could’ve soothed the storm in my chest.
“I need you.”
Just like that, every wall I’d spent four days rebuilding crumbled like dust. His voice was ragged, worn, full of defeat—and I didn’t even hesitate.
How could I?
Because in the space that had grown between us, I’d started to forget the truth .
I’d started to forget the man I walked away from wasn’t just the one who made me feel good.
He was the man who held me like he was afraid to let go.
The man who cried in a nursery over the story of his dad.
The man who drank himself sick trying to outrun grief so deep it swallowed him whole.
The man who held me while I broke, and promised he’d carry my pieces.
A promise I made right back.
I forgot.
But the second I heard his voice again, it all came rushing back. Every soft word, every shattered piece he let me hold.
I told him I’d be there soon, and I meant it.
Even as guilt clawed up my throat for being such a goddamn coward. For punishing him for disappearing, when maybe he was just barely holding it together.
Now, the sun is down. The breeze is cold. The scent of blooming flowers is thick in the air as I stand on his wraparound porch, heart pounding behind my ribs like a drum.
I stare at the door, debating whether to knock or just walk in.
Would he expect me to wait, like I’m some polite guest? As if I didn’t ride his face and soak his beard just a few days ago? Or do I walk in like I already belong to him ?
I shift my bag on my shoulder—this time packed with clothes, toiletries, and my backup meds.
Because I’m starting to learn that when it comes to Kade Archer, I should always expect the unexpected.
And right now? Standing on this porch, skin prickling with nerves and hope and something dangerously close to falling…
Nothing about this feels predictable.
My shaky hand lifts to the door but it flies open before I can knock.
Kade stands there—shirtless, barefoot, wearing a pair of ratty gym shorts and looking like he hasn’t slept in days. His hair’s a greasy mess, falling in strands around his face, and there are dark circles etched deep beneath his bloodshot eyes. He looks horrible.
And somehow, he looks beautiful.
My breath catches.
He stares back at me like he can’t believe I’m real, then drags in a shaky breath, his hand tightening on the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
“You’re here,” he says, voice hoarse and low. His shoulders drop, chin falling to his chest.
Before I can speak, before I can ask what the hell happened, a cry pierces the air—loud, devastating, and raw.
Kade’s whole body tenses. His spine goes rigid. And when he lifts his face, the look in his eyes guts me.
A choked, broken sound slips from his throat.
“I can’t do this.”
The cry cuts off abruptly, leaving behind a quiet so heavy it nearly topples me. My heart slams against my ribs, eyes flying to Kade’s. His breath is shaky, lips parted, shoulders drawn up like he’s bracing for impact.
Awareness dawns on me like a gut punch.
Aurora’s here.
A smile breaks across my face, wide and unfiltered, and before I can think better of it, I step forward, closing the space between us and wrapping my arms around his bare, exhausted frame.
“She’s here,” I breathe, the words catching in my throat as I squeeze my eyes shut.
He melts into me, his weight forcing my knees to bend as his arms lock around me. The relief of his touch nearly destroys me.
“Aurora is yours, Kade,” I whisper, eyes blurring. “Fuck, I’m so happy for you.”
He nods against my neck, fingers digging into the back of my sweater like he needs me just as much as I need him. Like he’s terrified I’ll slip away.
It’s scary and exhilarating and desperate.
“And she fuckin’ hates me,” he chokes out, voice cracking as his body shudders.
My brows pinch together, and I try to lean back to look at him, but he won’t let me go. One of my hands strokes gently down his back, my nose wrinkling as I breathe in fatigue, sweat, and something stale and sour.
“What are you talking about?” I murmur. “That little girl adores you.”
“No,” he mutters, burying his nose in my hair and inhaling like I’m the first full breath he’s taken in days. A full-body shiver ripples through me at the feel of it, but I shut it down, overtly aware of his breakdown right now and how inappropriate getting turned on is.
But, God, it’s like a knee-jerk reaction to being in this man's presence. Especially after the way he…
Nope.
No, Georgia. Not now.
“She won’t stop cryin’. Won’t sleep. Barely eats. Just spits up and drools and throws shit. And shits .”
I bite down a laugh and press my face to his chest to smother it.
“Ethel says she’s teething,” he grumbles. “But Christ, I don’t remember it being like this with the twins. Don’t remember them hating the world this fuckin’ much.”
“Well,” I say softly, my voice trying to sound steady even though my brain’s still short-circuiting from everything that’s happened in the past five minutes. “The twins were your sisters. You weren’t their parent. And you were still a kid.”
“I was thirteen when they were born,” he defends, fingers weaving through my hair.
It's down and curled by a curling iron today because I was so over overthinking him, I spent hours blow-drying, straightening, and curling my hair in front of the same stupid TV show we binged when I was here, being a masochist to the extreme.
“This is pretty,” he hums, low and warm. “Miss your curls, though, baby.”
Baby .
The word settles something wild and frantic in my chest, anchoring it in place. I finally manage to pull back enough to meet his eyes, cupping his face as I search him.
“You haven’t slept, have you?”
He shakes his head in my hands, eyes closing.
“She showed up Monday,” he mutters. “Was gonna call you, but then my whole family showed, and the guys...”
He trails off, shrugging helplessly before pressing his face into my palm.
“Everyone hung out, getting to know her. Mom stayed two nights, but she had to take Gemma to the airport yesterday and got stuck in Rydell because of the storm. Hazel’s out of town with Ridge at some equipment sale up north.”
“Ridge?” I ask gently, sorting through all the pieces. “The ranch manager?”
He nods, something like guilt flickering across his face. “They handle most of the shit for the farm these days.”
“And the twins?” I ask, eyes narrowing as protectiveness swarms my system. “They aren’t at the big house alone with your buddies , are they?”
He snorts. “Fuck, no. Mom’s got them staying with a friend till she’s back tomorrow. Griff took Wilder to the airport this morning.”
I nod, the tension in my shoulders finally starting to ease. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye to Wilder. Your friends seem like good guys.”