Chapter Three
Delilah
“Hey,” I murmur as I slip past Beau, the warmth of his presence brushing against me as I pass by. He holds the dispatch center door open longer than necessary, his eyes catching mine for a beat too long.
“I didn’t expect to be needed tonight,” I say, trying to sound casual, though I’m happy to be called in. I needed to get out of the house. “You usually fly solo on Sundays after your hunts.”
He grins, but it’s tight. “One of the guys on the early shift said it’d been extra busy today, so I figured better safe than sorry.
” His head tilts to the side. “I didn’t mean to pull you away from anything at home.
Just figured I’d offer you the hours first given that you’ve been looking for the extra money. ”
“No, it’s great,” I say, slipping my coat off slower than usual, letting the fabric fall like a sigh.
I feel his gaze, soft and lingering. Then again, maybe it’s nothing at all.
I’m not sure why I’m so desperate to believe it could be more.
I have a fiancé, a life, and a baby on the way.
Yet, I tell myself this story on the nights when everything feels sharp.
On the nights when home feels like a place that’s slowly erasing me rather than drawing out my joy.
It’s a fantasy stitched together from glances and silence, something tender I can tuck into when Dave’s words turn cruel and the walls close in.
I read last night in some article online that little daydreams about someone kind you admire isn’t all that strange and doesn’t have to mean anything, though I might have been leading the search results with my line of questioning.
“We weren’t doing anything productive anyway,” I add, but my voice falters, dipping low as the memory of last night claws its way back in. The fight. The ride home. The way he gripped the wheel like it was me he wanted to break.
Beau doesn’t say anything right away, but I feel the shift in the air. Like he heard the dip in my voice and filed it away somewhere quiet. He’s good at reading between the lines without making me feel exposed.
I move toward the kitchen, needing something to do with my hands. “I’m gonna grab a cup of decaf. You want anything?”
He shakes his head, eyes still on me. “I’m good.”
I nod, but my heart’s thudding harder than it should. It’s not the coffee. It’s him. It’s the way he looks at me, like I’m more than just a name on a schedule. Like he sees me. Like he wants to see me.
I’ve been struggling so damn long to be seen that when it happens, it’s overwhelmingly confusing.
I pour the coffee slowly, letting the steam rise and curl around me like a shield. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I’m hoping for. But I know that when I’m here, I breathe easier and everything feels light, like I can let down my guard and I’ll be safe.
When I turn back around, he’s still standing there… still watching.
“You sure everything’s okay?” he asks, his voice low and careful.
I swallow. “Yeah. Just tired.”
It’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth either.
The truth is, I’m sad. I’m sad and tired, and I have no idea how to fix any of it, but I didn’t come here to air out all my problems to the man I’ve built a fantasy about in my head.
I’m here to work. Plus, I’d bet anything that Beau couldn’t beat the version of him that I’ve built up in my head.
Fantasy men tend to be far more agreeable than actual men.
Retreating to my desk, I pull on my headset, turn on my caller alert system, and wait. And wait. And wait some more.
Tonight is just as slow as a normal Sunday is, which makes me wonder if Beau’s story about earlier is exaggerated.
For a second, I let myself imagine that he wanted me here.
That he likes spending the nights with me.
That he likes me close by. I imagine he’s tucked away in his office behind me, torturing himself with all the filthy things he wants to do to me but can’t.
It’s ridiculous, I know that, but believing it makes me feel warm and wanted. So, I let my little fantasy continue.
When did I become this girl? Why can’t Dave and I just work things out? Why can’t he stop being so damn defensive and hear me for once? Honestly though, I think even if he could hear me, he wouldn’t care. That thought alone should be enough for me to leave, so why don’t I?
Clearly, I need to get back to therapy, but I couldn’t afford the copay anymore with all the bills I’ve had recently. Having a baby is exponentially more expensive than I thought it was going to be.
I pull my phone from the bottom drawer to look up more articles that prove I’m not losing my mind when I finally get a call.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“I, ugh, I’m calling to order a pizza.”
I blink, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Ma’am, this is emergency dispatch. If you’re in danger and can’t speak freely, say yes.”
There’s a pause. A long one. The kind that makes your skin crawl.
“Yes,” she whispers.
My heart kicks into gear. I straighten in my chair, my voice steady as I say, “Is someone in the room with you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need the police?”
“Yes.”
I glance toward Beau’s office. His door is cracked open, and he’s already standing, eyes locked on me like he knows something’s wrong.
I scribble down the address as she gives it in fragments, her voice trembling. It’s not far, just a few blocks off Main. My stomach drops, and I send a red alert to the police.
“We’ve got a unit on its way, ma’am. Do you want to tell me more about what you’d like on that pizza while we wait?”
Her voice trembles, and though I’m focused on my job, there’s a part of me that hears my own voice in hers. A part of me that cries with her. A part of me that fears this exact call could be me someday.
“I… I like mushrooms,” she says, barely above a whisper.
I type fast, flagging the call for priority response. “Mushrooms. Got it. Anything else?”
“Extra cheese,” she says, and then there’s a sound in the background. It’s sharp, like a door slamming or a shout muffled by distance.
I flinch, and my hand tightens around the mouse. “What about wings? Breadsticks?”
“Yes,” she sniffles. “Breadsticks and wings. Extra hot.”
“The police should be there in less than sixty seconds, ma’am.” I watch my screen as the dispatch pulls up in front of her home. “They’re arriving now. You’ll be safe in a moment.”
“They’re here.” She swallows hard, and I hear the knock on her door. It’s customary for us to hang up at this point, but I want to stay on the line, make sure she’s safe, follow her to wherever she’s going, give her a hug, tell her how strong and brave she is.
Instead, the line disconnects, and I’m sat staring at the screen that’s now blank.
My heart pounds, and tears threaten to fall. For her, for me, for every woman feeling stuck like I do, for every woman being held hostage by hope.
Beau lowers into the chair next to me, his shoulders relaxed and angled toward mine.
One hand rests lightly on the table, the other draped over the back of my chair.
His eyes hold steady, soft with admiration.
He leans in slightly, and when he speaks, his voice is deliberate, like he wants every word to land exactly where it should.
“You handled that so well, Delilah. Your tone was so genuine and concerned. I wish I could make copies and fill a whole team with your level of heart and skill.”
His words hit harder than I expect. Maybe it’s because they aren’t just words.
I can feel that he means them, and they’re exactly what I didn’t know I needed.
The dam breaks before I can brace for it, tears spilling down in quick succession, uninvited but unstoppable, as the weight of everything I’ve been holding finally meets the softness of his voice.
Beau’s expression shifts instantly, curling across his features. He reaches for the tissue box without hesitation and hands one to me, his fingers brushing mine.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No.” I shake my head and brush the tears away with the tissue he’s handed me. “It’s hormones. Sorry. I’ll be right back.”
I don’t remember standing from the chair or disconnecting my headset.
I don’t remember the walk down the hall or opening the bathroom door.
I don’t remember anything before staring at myself in the mirror of this tiny Victorian-style bathroom.
And now that I’m here, I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know how to breathe. I don’t know how to make myself believe that love exists in places it doesn’t anymore.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I glance into the mirror. It’s been a while since I’ve really looked at myself.
A while since I’ve seen the shadows under my eyes or the split ends fraying my blonde hair.
I look more than exhausted. I look half dead.
The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix.
The kind that settles in your bones and makes everything feel heavier than it should.
I grip the edge of the sink, knuckles white, grounding myself against the cool porcelain. The hum of the flickering light above buzzes like static in my head, matching the chaos I’ve been trying to keep quiet.
I take a trembling breath, feeling like it’s borrowed from someone steadier than me, and stare into the mirror, searching for a glimmer of the girl I used to be, but she’s gone or hiding so well I can’t reach her.
I’m no longer the girl who dreamed of sirens and saving lives. No longer the one who vowed never to bend for a man like Dave, a man who could smile while I cry. No longer the girl who laughed easily, who made time for baking and cozy little crafts on Sunday afternoon.
All I see now is a stranger wearing my skin, eyes dulled by compromise and exhaustion. And in that moment, something inside me shifts. Not with fury, but with quiet finality.
I’ve had enough. Enough shrinking, enough forgetting, enough loving without being loved back.