Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The bed was cold.
Tarmek's hand swept across the sheets before his eyes opened, searching for warmth, for the soft curve of a hip or the tangle of curly hair spread across a pillow. His fingers found nothing but empty space and fabric that had long since lost any trace of body heat.
He sat up too fast, heart slamming against his ribs.
Gone.
The word ricocheted through his skull like a slap shot off the crossbar. Gone. She was gone. Again.
Grey morning light filtered through the curtains he'd forgotten to close, illuminating the evidence of last night—his suit jacket crumpled on the floor, her borrowed earrings abandoned on the nightstand, the sheets twisted into chaos around his legs.
But no Edie.
He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until stars exploded behind his lids. The dull ache in his chest that had become a constant companion over the past week roared back to life, sharper now, meaner, edged with something that felt dangerously close to despair.
I told her I loved her.
The memory hit him with brutal clarity. Standing in that cramped office, watching tears streak down her cheeks, finally finding the courage to say words he'd never spoken to another living soul.
I love you.
And she'd kissed him. She'd come home with him. She'd fallen asleep in his arms.
Then she'd left before dawn without a word.
Tarmek threw the covers off and stood, ignoring the protest of muscles that had barely recovered from last night's.
.. activities. The cold floor bit at his bare feet as he padded to the bathroom, then to the kitchen, searching for signs that maybe she'd just stepped out for coffee or gone for a walk or—
Nothing.
The condo was silent and still, exactly as orderly as it had been before she'd ever crashed into his life and rearranged everything he thought he knew about himself.
Almost exactly.
His gaze caught on a coffee mug sitting on the counter. One of his plain white mugs, but someone had drawn a small heart on the side in what looked like permanent marker. The ink was slightly smudged, the heart lopsided and imperfect.
Edie's work. Had to be.
He picked it up, turned it over in his massive hands, and felt something crack in his chest.
When did she do this?
Before she left? Before last night? One of the dozens of times she'd invaded his space and left little traces of herself scattered like bread crumbs?
It didn't matter.
What mattered was that she was gone, and he was standing in his immaculate kitchen holding a defaced mug like it was the most precious thing he'd ever owned.
Pathetic, he thought. You're pathetic, Stonefist.
But even as the criticism formed, another thought rose beneath it—quieter, more certain, impossible to ignore.
I don't want temporary.
The realization hit him like a body check, stealing his breath. All these weeks, he'd been telling himself stories. That this was a fling. That she'd move on eventually, the way she always did. That he could survive her leaving because he'd survived everything else.
Lies.
All of it, lies.
He didn't want Edie for a season or a project or until something better came along. He wanted her in his bed every night, in his kitchen every morning, in his life for as long as she'd let him keep her.
Forever.
The word felt foreign and terrifying and absolutely right.
He wanted Edie Anderson forever.
And he had absolutely no idea how to make her believe that staying was safe.
Tarmek set the mug down carefully—too carefully, like it might shatter if he wasn't gentle—and moved to the window.
Snow.
Of course it was snowing.
Fat white flakes drifted past the glass, coating the parking lot in a fresh layer of winter. The sky was heavy and grey, promising more to come. Another storm. Another excuse for the universe to complicate his life.
His gaze tracked automatically to the far corner of the lot, where Edie's camper sat hunched against the cold.
She's there.
He knew it with bone-deep certainty. Where else would she go? That ridiculous metal box was her sanctuary, her escape route, the physical manifestation of her determination to never need anyone or anything too much.
The thought made his hands curl into fists.
She was probably in there right now, convincing herself that last night was a mistake. Talking herself out of everything they'd shared. Building walls he'd have to tear down all over again.
Not this time.
Something snapped in his chest—the last thread of patience he'd been clinging to for weeks. He was done waiting. Done hoping she'd figure things out on her own. Done letting her run away while he stood there like a statue, too afraid of rejection to fight for what he wanted.
Tarmek grabbed the first clothes he could find—sweatpants, a thermal shirt, boots he didn't bother to tie—and headed for the door.
The cold hit him like a wall when he stepped outside. Snow stung his face, accumulated in his hair, crunched beneath his feet as he crossed the parking lot with single-minded determination.
The camper looked worse in daylight. Rust spots he hadn't noticed before. A dent in the siding that might have been there for years. Ice crystals forming on windows that were probably single-paned and poorly insulated.
She lived in this for years.
The thought made his stomach turn. Not because there was anything wrong with the camper—it was clearly well-loved, maintained as best as limited resources allowed—but because Edie had spent so long convincing herself this was all she needed. All she deserved.
He raised his fist to knock, then paused.
Sounds from inside. Metallic clanging. A muffled curse. Then—
"Stupid piece of—come ON—"
Tarmek didn't knock.
He grabbed the door handle and pulled.
The scene that greeted him was pure chaos.
Edie was wedged into the narrow space between the tiny kitchenette and the wall, surrounded by tools, spare parts, and what looked like the internal components of her heating system.
She was still wearing last night's dress, now wrinkled beyond repair, with a flannel shirt thrown over it and thick socks on her feet.
Her hair was a disaster. Her makeup was smeared. And she was holding what appeared to be a pipe wrench in one hand while glaring at a piece of metal like it had personally offended her.
"What are you doing?"
She jumped at his voice, nearly dropping the wrench.
"Tarmek! What—you can't just—" She gestured at the open door, at the snow blowing in, at her own disheveled state. "I'm busy."
"I can see that." He climbed inside without invitation, pulling the door shut behind him. The camper immediately felt smaller, cramped, barely large enough to contain his bulk. "What broke?"
"Nothing."
"Edie."
"Nothing." She turned back to the metal components spread across the floor. "I've got it handled."
He looked at the parts. At the tools. At the way her hands were shaking, whether from cold or frustration or something else entirely.
"That's the heating system."
"I know what it is."
"I had it fixed two weeks ago."
"I know that too." She jabbed the wrench at something he couldn't see. "And apparently whoever you paid did a terrible job, because it stopped working again last night and I woke up to a temperature that felt like the inside of a freezer."
The words hit him like a punch to the gut.
She was freezing. She left my bed and came back here and—
"Why didn't you come back?"
The question came out rougher than he intended. Edie's shoulders tensed.
"I didn't want to wake you."
"Bullshit."
She whirled to face him, eyes blazing. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." He stepped closer, eating up the tiny space between them. "You didn't leave because you were worried about my sleep. You left because you were scared."
"I wasn't—"
"You run, Edie. That's what you do. Things get real, things get serious, and you disappear before anyone can hurt you.
" Another step. She backed into the counter.
"I told you I loved you last night. You kissed me like you meant it.
And then you snuck out of my bed at dawn without even leaving a note. "
Her jaw tightened. "I needed space."
"Space." The word tasted bitter. "You've had nothing but space. Your whole life is space. How's that working out for you?"
"Don't—"
"Don't what? Don't tell you the truth? Don't point out that you've been alone so long you've forgotten what it feels like to let someone help you?
" He gestured at the scattered tools, the broken heating system, her shivering frame.
"Look at yourself. You're freezing in a metal box, trying to fix something you don't know how to fix, because admitting you need help would mean admitting you can't do everything alone. "
"I can do everything alone!" The words exploded out of her, sharp and jagged. "I've been doing everything alone for years, Tarmek. That's how I survived. That's how I—"
"That's how you avoided getting hurt. I know." His voice softened despite himself. "I know, Edie. But this isn't surviving. This is hiding."
She stared at him, chest heaving, eyes bright with unshed tears. The wrench trembled in her grip.
"You don't understand."
"Then explain it to me."
"I can't—" She turned away, pressing her free hand against her forehead.
"I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to stay.
Every time I've tried, every time I've let myself get attached, it ends.
People leave, or I leave, or everything falls apart, and the only thing that's constant is me.
The only thing I can rely on is myself."
The confession cracked something open in Tarmek's chest. He saw it now—the fear beneath her chaos, the wounds beneath her warmth. She wasn't careless. She was careful. So careful that she'd built an entire life around never needing anyone enough to be devastated when they disappeared.
"You don't have to do this alone."
"Yes, I do." Her voice broke. "I don't have a choice."
"You do." He moved closer, crowding her against the counter, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her despite the cold. "That's what I'm trying to tell you, Edie. You have a choice. You've always had a choice. And I'm asking you—begging you—to choose to let me in."
She looked up at him, tears finally spilling down her cheeks.
"What if you leave?"
The question was barely a whisper.
"I won't."
"Everyone leaves."
"I won't." He cupped her face in his hands, thumbs brushing away tears. "I am the most stubborn bastard you have ever met. I have spent my entire life refusing to give up on anything that matters. And you, Edie Anderson, matter more than anything I've ever known."
She shook her head, but didn't pull away. "You don't know that. You can't promise—"
"I can. I am." He pressed his forehead against hers, breathing her in. "I love you. Not temporarily. Not conditionally. I love you, and I want to build a life with you, and I will spend every single day proving it if that's what it takes."
A sob escaped her. Then another. And then she was crying in earnest, her body shaking, the wrench clattering to the floor as she gripped his shirt with both hands.
Tarmek gathered her close, held her against his chest, and let her fall apart in the cramped confines of the camper she'd used to run away from him.
"It's okay," he murmured against her hair. "I've got you."
And I'm never letting go.