CHAPTER 14 – SAFE HARBOR
Jack
When I open the door, she’s standing there in a blizzard of porch light, her suitcase clutched like a shield, blonde hair tangled, tear tracks down her cheeks.
She’s wearing the same outfit from earlier in the day - a battered university hoodie and the jeans that hug her curvy ass just so, which means she didn’t pack, she evacuated.
There’s a second bag, the duffel I bought her for camping, over her other shoulder.
Her eyes are so swollen that my heart swoops and then falls.
I get a “Hey,” out before she drops everything and launches at me, all sobs and shivering limbs. The bags thud on the doormat. I catch her, barely, and she clamps on like a drowning swimmer. The momentum nearly bowls me over.
I wrap both arms around her, bury my face in her soft locks, and hold her as tight as I dare.
For a minute, there’s nothing but shaking.
Her whole body vibrates like she’s hooked to a live wire.
My chest is instantly soaked from her tears, but it’s fine.
I run one hand up and down her back, muttering “It’s okay.
You’re safe. You’re okay,” on a loop until the shivering tapers to just a twitch in her hands.
Her breath is ragged. Eliza doesn’t move, just stays glued to my chest, and I can feel the wild, off-kilter drumbeat of her heart through two layers of fabric. I can feel those big breasts flattened against my hard chest too, but this isn’t the time to mention that fact.
When she finally lifts her face, she’s so sad that my heart squeezes. “Can I stay here?” she manages. “I don’t—there’s nowhere else. I can’t—” Her voice cracks hard, the words jammed in her throat. It would be pathetic if it wasn’t so honest.
“You can stay forever,” I growl, which is apparently all she needs to hear because she sags against me, entire body weight surrendered.
I scoop up her bags in one hand and nudge her inside, bumping the door shut with my hip. The house smells like wood smoke from the fire place, and a rich simmering tomato sauce from dinner earlier. I get Eliza to the living room, deposit the bags, and guide her to the couch.
She resists, veers into my chest again, so I just let her hang there.
She’s crying in these weird, noisy spasms—ugly crying, the kind where you can’t breathe and the snot comes faster than the tears.
I hold her anyway because this woman means everything to me.
Her pain is my pain, so I don’t say much.
After years in the service, you learn the value of just shutting up and letting someone lose their shit in peace.
She finally peels away, sniffling, and wipes her face on her sleeve. “Sorry,” she mutters. “I look like a murder victim, I know.”
I crouch down, hands on her knees. “You look perfect, sweetheart. I’m just glad you’re here.”
She tries to smile, but it’s crooked, her whole mouth warped by the crying. “I brought my computer, my camera, and, um, my makeup bag. I forgot panties, but I have my charger. Is that weird? That the first thing I checked was my charger?”
“Not at all,” I say. “You want water? Or something stronger? Whiskey?”
Eliza laughs, a horrible sound. “Both?”
I pour her the water, then the whiskey, then sit next to her, waiting for the panic to recede.
When she starts to breathe normal again, I get a word in.
“I made up the guest room for you,” I say.
“Put on fresh sheets and everything, just in case you want some space to yourself tonight. But you can sleep wherever you want. Even in my bed, if you want.”
She gives me a look, raw and grateful. “Thanks,” she whispers. “I want to be with you, Jack. I need you by me, especially now.” With that, she gets up and slowly makes her way upstairs, those curvy hips swaying as we walk down the hallway.
When we reach my bedroom, she stands by the dresser, looking blankly around, like she’s never seen this room before. Of course, that’s not true because I’ve claimed Eliza’s curves multiple times in my bedroom. Morning, noon, and night, on every surface, in fact.
But my girl is exhausted and merely sits on the bed before burying her head in a pillow. She’s silent. Just a small, rounded lump.
I hover in the doorway, unsure. “You need anything?”
She doesn’t answer, just shakes her head into the pillow.
I go to the kitchen, pour another whiskey, then come back. She hasn’t moved. I sit on the edge of the bed and rub her back, slow and firm.
Eventually, she rolls over, eyes pink and puffy. My woman is gorgeous, even in ruins.
“My parents hate me,” she mumbles. “They said I’m dead to them, and they mean it. I’ve never seen my dad so mad. He broke the remote. Like, physically. And my mom—she was crying so hard she couldn’t talk.”
I listen. I don’t rush her. My girl needs to let it out, and I’m going to let her.
“They think I’m insane,” she goes on, voice flat. “They think you’re a monster. And a pervert. And that I’m a whore who’s never going to get a real job or have a real family because I do what I do online.”
She looks at me then, waiting for judgment. There isn’t any.
I put my hand on her cheek. “You did the right thing. You were honest. You stood up for yourself. That’s all anyone can do.”
She shakes her head, hair fanning across the pillow. “I’m a disaster, Jack. I’ve never felt this horrible before. I wish I could just disappear.”
I lean down, brush my lips over her forehead. “You’re not a disaster. You’re a beautiful young woman finding her way in the world, and you’re safe here. You hear me? You’re home.”
She gulps a little, the sound half laugh, half sob. “Your house is so clean it’s making me anxious. Are you going to make me mop the floors as penance?”
“No, but you can try to out-cook me tomorrow,” I say with a smile at the corner of my lips. “Winner gets the good coffee mug.”
This time she does laugh, a real one. “You’re such a dork.”
I shrug. “Takes one to know one.”
The mood stabilized a bit, Eliza pulls the covers up, nestles under them, and pats the bed beside her. I slip in, shoes off, and she gloms on like a barnacle. Her softness is pressed against me, those big breasts soft and pillowy, and for the first time since she arrived, her breathing slows.
It’s dark but not silent. The house creaks as it cools, the fridge cycles, and somewhere, a distant train moans. Eliza nestles her face in my chest and just breathes.
We lay there, not talking. She clings to me, a fistful of my t-shirt locked in her hand.
I’m a big guy, but I feel like a blanket draped over a feather.
My heart beats slow and steady, and eventually her pulse matches it.
In the dark, I can smell her shampoo, and the faintest tang of leftover salt from her tears.
When her breathing evens out, I watch the shapes of the room: the shadow of the C-130 on the ceiling, the shelf of aviation books, the stray hair tie already left on my nightstand. But it’s different now. With Eliza here, there’s an air of the feminine, and I like it. I love it, actually.
I reach over, cover her hand with mine, and squeeze. Even in sleep, she squeezes back.
I don’t sleep much. Too many years of bad news arriving at night.
But tonight I stay perfectly still, heartbeat slow and even, and keep vigil as my beautiful girl rests.
There’s nothing to hurt her. Just the slow, warm weight of her body against mine, the feel of her hair on my arm, the knowledge that she’s here, alive and real and in my bed.
She’s safe. For now. And I’m not letting anyone take that from her.
When I finally do drift off, it’s with her wrapped around me, face pressed to my throat, her thighs splayed and soft, unconsciously pressed against my hardness.
And even in sleep, I can feel the shift—like the plane has cleared the storm, and we’re finally flying level, together, into whatever comes next.
Morning sunlight makes me blink, and I yawn mightily before opening my eyes.
My reward is the pale, perfect curve of Eliza’s back tangled in my sheets.
Her hair streams across the pillow like molten gold, her big breasts visible from just above the sheet.
During the night, she must have gotten up and gotten nude because I can glimpse soft ivory curves, and the thatch of darkness at the vee of her thighs.
But Eliza’s breathing even and deep, sweet and calm.
I try to move without waking her, but she’s a heat-seeking missile.
As soon as I shift, she moans, and then presses against my hardness.
The effect is so instantly domestic it makes my chest ache.
For a second, I just lie there and watch her, memorizing the way the sunlight webs across her bare thigh, the way her ass peeks out, round like a succulent peach.
But this isn’t the time to seduce my beautiful girl because she needs rest, and lots of it after the events of last night.
So moving slowly, I slip out of bed and hit the kitchen, where I attack breakfast like a mission.
Bacon first—thick cut, laid out in strips on my favorite cast iron.
The sizzle fills the air. I grind coffee, dark as diesel, and the smell alone is enough to banish every bad dream I’ve ever had.
Toast next, because Eliza loves toast, even if she calls my Ezekiel “prison bread.” I line it all up on the counter like rations, then go back for eggs, a double batch, heavy on the butter.
It’s so normal, so comfortable and domestic to cook for my woman, that I almost expect the world to crack open and swallow me for daring to enjoy it. Instead, the only sound is the pop and hiss of the bacon, the low thrum of the fridge, and Eliza’s feet padding down the hall.