The Space Between (Hope Runs Deep #8)

Chapter 1

Blakelyn

The hill country sky is split in half—one side is drenched in sunset, the other already dipping into night, like even the damn atmosphere can’t make up its mind.

Kind of like me.

The steering wheel of my little white Honda is slick with sweat.

I’ve had a death grip on it for the last ten minutes, even though the car’s parked.

The keys are still in the ignition. The engine is idling like it’s waiting for me to finally get the hell out and face my new life. But my fingers won’t move.

I’m here. I’m actually here.

Juniper Falls.

The town name is printed on the side of the building I just passed driving in—rusted metal letters nailed to the planked wood of the old post office like some long-forgotten Western set. The air smells like cedar, river, and dust. Like things that don’t rush. Like people who know how to stay put.

I’m not one of them. Not yet.

I’ve never stayed in one place long enough for anyone to really know me. Not since I met Tyler. Not since I let someone break me down and wear me like a second skin. But I’m done with that. I’m done with him.

No more bruises in places people can’t see, but I certainly feel. No more apology gifts. No more promises that twist into threats. No more lies. No more silence.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I reach for the door handle with a hand that shakes. Clenching it into a fist until my knuckles go white, I take deep breaths, trying to calm my racing heart.

You left, Blakelyn. You did it. You found some backbone and you got out of Hell.

Now, get out of the damn car.

I shove the door open and step out into the thick June, Texas air. The cicadas scream like they’re cheering for me. Or warning me. I can’t tell the difference yet.

The gravel crunches beneath my white sneakers as I make my way around to the back of the car. Popping the trunk, I stare at the contents like they belong to someone else.

Eight boxes. A duffel bag. A tote bag. And a folded quilt that used to lay across the foot of my grandma’s bed.

That’s all I brought.

That’s all I have.

It’s all I could grab without him noticing… but it’s all I need.

The cabin behind me is small, compact, and worn, but not in a sad way.

It’s got a charm that feels old and untouched—like someone built it with their bare hands and meant for it to last. The front door paint is chipped.

I know the porch will creak as I walk over it.

And a rusty windchime sings from the eave in soft metallic tones.

It’s nothing like the modern, sterile apartment I shared with Tyler and that’s exactly the point.

Hoisting a box, I head for the porch steps. They sag under my weight, the wood slabs groaning as I cross over them. The screen door squeals as I push it open.

Inside, it smells like cedar and lemon and just a hint of river dampness.

The landlord said it came clean and furnished.

He wasn’t lying. There’s a worn, but still life left in it, leather couch, a small wooden table with two mismatched chairs, and a full bed tucked into the far corner beneath a wide window.

The kitchen is barely more than a small counter, a sink, an old fridge, and an ancient gas stove, but it’s perfect.

Setting the box on the table, I let out a shaky breath I didn’t even realize I was holding and look around. Then, I laugh. It bubbles up out of my chest so fast it shocks me. Slapping my hand over my mouth, I double over from the mirth as full bellied laughter fills the quaint cabin.

I’m not crying. I’m not. This isn’t a breakdown. It’s just… release .

It’s the sound of a girl who finally ran … and lived .

It’s freedom .

By the time the sun is gone from the sky and the porch light flickers, I’ve moved all eight boxes inside and remade the bed with my own nice sheets and my grandma’s quilt.

A few dishes I grabbed from a thrift store, along with two pans and one pot, are in the cabinets.

I’ve lit the lemon sugar candle one of my students gave me at the end of last year and the smell is permeating the small space.

The cabin already feels like home in a way nothing ever has. I don’t need much.

Just quiet. Just space. Just time.

Snagging a cold bottle of water from the mini-fridge, I open the front door and step outside to the porch.

The river is right there—a mere thirty or so feet away, though the cabin is raised up on a hill.

It’s low and winding, framed by cypress and oak trees and lit silver by the moon.

Somewhere downstream, a bullfrog croaks, low and satisfied.

Sinking onto the porch step, I press the bottle to my neck, enjoying the peaceful sounds for a moment. Then, I freeze as I hear it.

Boots. Heavy and deliberate… coming from the left of my porch, the direction of the other cabin.

I’m perfectly still as my fingers tighten around the water bottle. A shape emerges from the darkness—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in faded jeans and a dark t-shirt. He’s carrying something under his arm. A bag? A towel? I’m not sure in the muted light.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. He just heads straight toward the river like I’m not even here.

I watch him in silence. I can’t look away. I’m not sure if it’s fear… or curiosity. There’s something about the way he moves, purposeful, almost angry. Like every step is a conscious decision.

He gets to the edge of the dock, drops what he’s carrying, and pulls his shirt over his head in one fluid motion.

I stop breathing.

He’s illuminated under the fullness of the moon. His back and arms are a canvas of scars. Pale, raised lines that cross his skin like lightning bolts. Some are small and thin, others appear deep and ragged. They climb over his ribs, down one arm, and up the back of his neck.

I don’t mean to stare. But I do… because he’s beautiful and brutal all at once.

Then, he turns. Just enough for me to see the side of his face. He’s got a jawline that could slice open the dark, a mouth set in a hard, grim line, and eyes that flash silver in the porch light.

He sees me.

Our gazes collide.

My chest seizes.

For one second, we’re locked in some silent standoff, the air between us taut and humming.

Then, he turns and dives straight into the river with a splash that echoes.

I blink.

He doesn’t come back up right away. My heart lurches.

But then—there—he surfaces just in front of the dock, slicking his hair back with one hand while holding onto the dock with the other. Ignoring me, he tilts his face to the stars.

He lies back, still holding onto the dock. He floats.

Still, silent.

And I think to myself…

This isn’t a swim. It’s a purge.

He’s not just cooling off.

I watch him, barely breathing for fear of disturbing him for who knows how long.

The river current pulls at him and he just grips the deck with a tight fist. Finally, he hauls himself out of the river.

Water drips from his jeans and down his fit, scarred body.

He never looks at me, but I know he knows I’m here.

His jawline and fisted hands give him away.

Finally, he grabs the towel, and roughly runs it over his face and chest, before stalking past me again, toward his cabin like I don’t exist.

I feel it like a punch to the chest.

Who is he?

And what broke him that badly?

I don’t sleep.

I try. God, I try. But his image is carved behind my eyes. He’s so rugged, but also so beautiful. Those scars. That silence. That look. Like he was half-daring me to flinch and half-begging me not to.

I toss and turn in the unfamiliar bed until sunrise.

I don’t even know his name.

But I already know one thing for sure… he’s not just my neighbor.

He’s a warning.

And I’m not sure I can stay away.

Gruene

The river doesn’t forgive.

People like to think it’s some soft, winding thing that cools you off on a hot day.

That it’s friendly… and playful… and slow.

But they’re wrong. It’ll turn on you the second you stop paying attention.

Especially when it’s rain-swollen and angry.

Especially in the dark. Especially when you’re driving too fast and thinking you’re invincible.

I know what the river takes.

I know what it leaves behind.

And I know it never gives a damn.

Dragging my towel over my head, I scrub the river water from my face. My skin burns from the coldness of the water and from the way she looked at me.

The new girl… no, the woman , in Cabin 2.

She sat on her porch, unabashedly watching me like she was made of questions.

Her eyes were too wide, too knowing, too…

familiar. I didn’t miss the fear on her face at my appearance or the way she gripped that water bottle like a lifeline.

She’s seen enough hurt to recognize it in someone else.

She didn’t look away from me… on purpose.

No one looks at me like that anymore. Not without pity or gossip in their eyes… in their mouths.

But she did. She looked. She wanted to know more.

And I fucking felt it as deeply as if her small hands were on my skin.

Shaking out my towel, I sling it over my shoulder as I climb the steps to the loft of my cabin, my keys still in my hand because I forgot to drop them on the counter.

The bathroom door creaks the way it always does, wood swollen from years of humidity and time.

I kick it closed behind me and reach for the snap of my soaked jeans, pulling them down and letting them fall to the floor.

I don’t even care that they’re soaking the wood.

I bet her whole cabin smells like river and cedar and faint traces of her perfume already.

No. That part’s in my head. Because there’s no way I would know if she even wears perfume.