Page 176 of What We Become

First the flowers nobody sent. Now a face across the street that might not be there.

Or might be.

It rings once.

“Wildcat?”

“Can you come get me?” My voice is steady. My hands are not. “I’m at the diner. I cut my leg. I’m okay but I need—I just need you to come.”

“Isn’t Eli on watch?”

“He’s outside. But I need you, Holden. Please.”

He pauses. “I’m leaving now. Five minutes.” I hear the rustle of movement and an engine start—Holden, already in the car, already on his way. “Stay on the line.”

“Okay.”

“Are you safe?”

“Yeah. I’m in the back room. It’s just a cut.”

“Sage. Are you safe?”

He’s not asking about the cut.

“I thought I saw him,” I say. “Across the street. Through the window.”

Silence. One beat. Two.

“Was it him?”

“I don’t know. I looked again and nobody was there.” I grab a wad of napkins and press them against the cut to stop the bleeding. The pain finally registers—sharp, hot, grounding. “It’s probably nothing. My brain playing tricks so I don’t get comfortable.”

“I’m two minutes out.”

“Holden, it’s probably⁠—”

“I’m two minutes out, wildcat.”

“Is Eli freaking out?”

“He’s checking the street. He didn’t see anyone, and he knows I’m coming. Don’t move.”

I stay still, my back against the wall, the napkins turning redder as I press them to the gash. The back room feels smaller now, the mop bucket’s chemical stink clawing at my nose, but it’s better than out front where everyone would see me unraveling. Two minutes feels like forever. But then I hear Danny’s voice murmuring something low, and heavy footsteps heading my way.

The door swings open, and there’s Holden, filling the frame, his ice-blue eyes scanning me head to toe before locking on the blood.

“Up,” he says, voice clipped but gentle, already bending to slide an arm under my knees and another around my back. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, carrying me out through the diner without a word to anyone—Rosa just nods from the counter, knowing by now not to question my men.

Through the front glass I see Eli across the street, standing in the exact spot where the cardigan was. He doesn’t come over. He lifts two fingers off the roof of the car and turns back to the street, and I keep my eyes on him, and on the nothing standing beside him, until the door swings shut behind us.

We’re home in under ten minutes, the car ride a blur of his hand on my thigh, steady and warm, anchoring me while I stare out the window at empty sidewalks. He doesn’t push for details, just gets me inside, straight to the kitchen, and hoists me onto the counter with my legs dangling over the edge.

“Stay,” he commands, retrieving the first-aid kit from the cabinet.

“Leg out.” His attention stays on the wound as I lift my leg. He peels away the blood-soaked napkins and uses a piece of gauze to wipe aside enough blood to inspect the gash. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches.”

I watch his careful hands, his focus absolute, but I can’t ignore the change in his breathing.