27. Rylie
Rylie
Two Months Later
Safety didn’t arrive all at once.
It came in pieces.
In mornings when I woke up without fear, clawing at my chest.
In coffee brewed too strong because Trigger forgot to measure.
In the sound of boots on the tavern stairs and the low murmur of Rangers arguing about nothing important.
Life resumed—carefully.
Trigger and I didn’t rush anything. We didn’t pretend the world hadn’t nearly swallowed us whole. Instead, we learned each other in quiet ways—shared meals, slow evenings, long walks that never strayed far from familiar ground.
He never said I’m watching the perimeter.
He didn’t have to.
I saw it in the way he positioned himself in rooms. In how his eyes tracked exits even while his hand rested warm and steady at the small of my back. In how he always waited until I was asleep before allowing himself to rest.
And somehow… that didn’t make me feel trapped.
It made me feel chosen.
Tonight, the tavern was closed early. A storm rolled in off the mountains, rain tapping against the windows like a reminder that danger still existed—but couldn’t reach us here.
Trigger stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, forearms wet with soap and water as he washed dishes we could’ve easily ignored. Domestic suited him in a way I hadn’t expected—grounded, real.
“You’re staring,” he said without turning.
I smiled. “I’m appreciating.”
He glanced over his shoulder, mouth curving faintly. “Dangerous habit.”
“I like dangerous,” I teased.
He shut the water off and crossed the room, stopping close enough that his presence wrapped around me without touching.
“You feeling okay tonight?” he asked quietly.
I nodded. “I didn’t even think about Thomas today.”
Something shifted in his expression—not relief exactly, but gratitude.
“That’s progress,” he said.
“I think…” I hesitated, then met his eyes. “I think I finally believe it’s over.”
Trigger didn’t correct me.
That should’ve warned me.
Instead, he brushed his thumb along my jaw, grounding and gentle. “You’re allowed to feel safe,” he said. “I won’t take that from you.”
I leaned into him, resting my forehead against his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath my ear.
Strong. Reliable.
Mine matched it.
Later, curled together on the couch as the storm deepened, I traced idle patterns along his arm, feeling the tension ease from my body in a way I hadn’t thought possible.
“Eli?” I murmured.
“Yeah?”
“If something ever happened again…” I swallowed. “Would you tell me?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
When he did, his voice was quiet. Honest.
“I’d never let you walk blind into danger,” he said. “But I won’t live waiting for it either.”
I nodded, comforted by that balance.
By him.
I drifted to sleep believing the worst was behind us.
Believing the quiet meant peace.
Outside, the rain washed the streets clean.
And somewhere far beyond Eagle River, men who had lost power—and money—were beginning to look for someone to blame.