Chapter 27-Bit
It’s one of those perfect early fall evenings—pink sky melting into gold, crickets tuning up like a string section, and that scent of hay and warm earth seeping in through the open windows.
The kind of night that feels like a sigh. Like everything’s slowing down just enough for you to notice how alive it all is.
Sawyer’s in the kitchen, packing up for his Arizona run.
He moves through the house like a quiet storm—focused, deliberate, every motion efficient and practiced.
Boots scuffing against the hardwood, the low thud of the cooler lid, the rustle of a worn duffel as he folds shirts with military precision.
There’s a rhythm to it.
Load. Zip. Check.
Move. Breathe. Repeat.
Angie’s left him sandwiches, a tin of cookies, and a thermos of coffee.
There are soft drinks in the cooler, a couple bags of chips—everything neat, labeled, and ready to go.
He doesn’t say a word as he works, but I can feel it in the air.
The tension.
The reluctance.
The part of him that doesn’t want to leave me here, even for a few days.
And I get it.
Because I don’t want him to go either.
Which is exactly why I decide now is the time to tell him—no, show him—that I’m not going anywhere.
I’m here.
For real.
For however long he’ll have me.
God, I love this man.
It’s wild how easily those words fit inside my head now.
Love. Him.
Trying to picture my life without him? Shit. I can’t even do it.
The funny—or maybe tragic—thing is, I know my pattern. I’m what my mother likes to call a “self-destructive personality type.”
I have this uncanny ability to set myself up for heartbreak and failure like it’s my full-time job.
I mean, the evidence is all there:
Catholic High School—got kicked out of for cursing at my teacher after she low-balled me on a grade.
Cheerleading—quit after two months because the skirts were itchy.
College—flunked out halfway through my junior year because I couldn’t pick a major.
Boyfriends—don’t even get me started.
Jobs—bartending, retail, photography, hair school, that brief and truly cursed essential oils phase. Nothing ever stuck.
I’ve failed at just about everything I’ve ever touched.
So, yeah. I’m already painfully aware that this—us—might be temporary.
And I know when Sawyer gets tired of me, when he wakes up one morning and realizes he deserves someone steadier, stronger, less prone to self-destruction, I’ll have no choice but to let him go.
And it’s gonna hurt.
Hard.
Like losing air. Like losing the sun.
But it’s too late now to stop it. Too late to pretend he doesn’t matter.
Because how do you hold back an avalanche once it starts to fall?
Fact is—I’ve fallen for him.
Completely.
And for once in my life, I’m not running from it.
I want this.
I want him.
And I have every intention of being right here for however long he’ll let me stay.
I take a deep breath and glance toward the kitchen.
He’s standing by the counter, keys in hand, shoulders broad and strong, the lamplight catching the stubble along his jaw.
God, he’s beautiful.
“Hey, cowboy,” I call softly from the living room.
He turns immediately, eyes finding me like they always do.
His dark brows lift just a little, and the corner of his mouth tugs upward in that lazy half-smile that wrecks me every damn time.
“Yeah, Lil Bit?” he says, voice roughened by worry, fatigue and something else—something warmer, deeper.
I step toward him, my heart thudding in my chest.
There’s so much I want to say—thank you for letting me stay, for seeing me, for making me feel like more than a fuckup for once in my life—but the words knot in my throat.
So instead, I just look at him, memorizing the sight of this man I somehow stumbled into loving.
Because I know, deep down, that whatever happens next—this is the moment that’ll haunt me forever.
“I made you something.”
I hold up the quilt I’ve been working on all week.
It’s big enough to cover his massive bed, all stitched from the fabrics I’ve scavenged—muted plaids, worn denim, little squares of flannel and linen.
I even snuck in one of his old work shirts that had a tear he said wasn’t worth fixing.
Sawyer walks over slow, his eyes moving over the quilt, his hands brushing across the seams like he can feel the hours I put into it.
“Jesus, Bit,” he murmurs, voice gone rough. “You did this?”
“Mm-hmm.” I nod, suddenly shy. “You said this house never felt like a home before, and I just, I wanted to change that.”
He stares at it for a long moment, then at me. “It worked.”
The words are low and certain, and something in them makes my throat tighten.
I take a breath, stepping closer.
“I’m not just staying here, Sawyer. I’m putting down roots. I hope that’s okay.”
He exhales hard, like the admission hits him deep.
Then he reaches out, curling a finger under my chin until I meet his eyes.
“More than okay, Lil Bit. Feels like the first right thing that’s happened for me in a long time.”
There’s something he’s holding back—I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his thumb strokes over my chin like he’s memorizing the feel of me.
“I got a question to ask you,” he says finally, his voice low, serious, and laced with something that makes my heart trip.
“It’s a big one. And I know everyone’s gonna say it’s too fast, but I don’t give a fuck what the world thinks. Only you. Okay?”
My eyes burn instantly, and I nod, my voice catching.
“Okay.”
“But I’m not gonna ask you until I get back,” he adds, brushing his knuckles down my cheek. “So you make sure you sit tight and wait for me. Promise?”
“Promise,” I whisper, swallowing hard.
His gaze dips to my purse on the table.
“And you have the gun?”
“In my purse,” I assure him, pulling the strap higher onto my shoulder.
“Loaded and ready, like you showed me.”
He exhales, the tension easing from his shoulders, and then he cups my face and kisses me slow—steady and sure, the kind of kiss that says this isn’t goodbye, it’s just until I get back.
When he pulls away, his forehead rests against mine.
“Good girl. Keep the doors locked, stick close to Angie, and don’t open up for anyone you don’t know.”
“I’ll be fine,” I whisper, though my heart’s racing a mile a minute.
“I know,” he says softly. “But I still needed to hear you say it.”
And when he leaves an hour later—truck lights cutting through the dusk, the roar of the engine fading down the gravel road—I stand on the porch, wrapped in that quilt, breathing in the scent of him still clinging to the fabric.
Rooted.
Cherished.
Protected.
And waiting for the man who made me feel all of that.