Chapter 4: The Quiet Before the Storm
The apartment smelled like lavender and something baking—Mia's latest experiment, probably, some gluten-free monstrosity that would taste like cardboard and honey. Ava had cracked the window earlier to let out the smoke, and now the evening air crept in, cool against her bare arms.
She'd changed outfits three times.
First the oversized sweater—too slouchy, looked like she was hiding. Then the fitted henley—too obvious, like she was trying. She'd settled on a plain black t-shirt and her softest jeans, the ones with the rip in the knee that Mia said made her look "effortlessly hot" and Ava suspected made her look like she'd fallen down.
The buzzer rang at 7:02.
Ava's stomach flipped. She crossed to the intercom and pressed the button. "Yeah?"
"It's Jake."
"I know." She winced. "I mean—come up."
She buzzed him in and then stood in the middle of her living room, suddenly unsure what to do with her hands. The coffee table was covered in her textbooks—developmental psych, statistics, a battered copy of the DSM-5 she'd bought used for half price. Mia's crossword sat untouched in the corner, half-finished as always.
A knock at the door.
Ava opened it.
Jake stood in the hallway wearing a gray crewneck and jeans, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. His hair was still damp—he must have showered after the gym—and he smelled like soap and something clean and sharp.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
They stood there for a beat too long. Then Ava stepped back and gestured him inside.
"Nice place," Jake said, looking around. His eyes landed on the crossword, the diffuser, the stack of textbooks. "Very...cozy."
"That's code for small."
"That's code for I can tell you actually live here." He dropped his bag by the couch. "My apartment looks like a hotel. Derek doesn't believe in decorating."
"Who's Derek?"
"Roommate. I told you about him."
"Right. The wannabe Joe Rogan."
"That's the one." Jake grinned. "He's currently at a party I skipped to be here. He thinks I've lost my mind."
Ava felt a small, warm glow in her chest. "You skipped a party? For a study session?"
"I skipped a party for you." Jake said it casually, like it was nothing, but his eyes held hers a moment too long. "So. Where do you want me?"
The question landed strange. Ava felt heat creep up her neck.
"The floor," she said quickly. "I spread everything out on the floor. Better for my back."
"Floor it is."
They settled on opposite sides of the coffee table, surrounded by textbooks. Jake pulled out his own notes—neat, typed, organized in a way that surprised her. She'd expected messy handwriting and crumpled pages, not this.
"You're a good student," she said.
"You sound surprised."
"I am surprised."
"Fair." Jake flipped open his laptop. "Everyone assumes I'm coasting on Daddy's money. Which, I mean, I could. But I don't."
Ava studied him. "Why not?"
He shrugged. "Because then what's the point? If I'm just gonna be another rich kid who skates through life, what am I actually doing? I want to earn something."
"That's... not what I expected you to say."
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Something about networking opportunities."
Jake laughed—that low, warm sound that she was starting to associate with him. "I save the networking bullshit for my dad. He's the one who cares about that stuff."
They studied for a while. Actually studied—Ava making flashcards for her developmental psych exam, Jake typing notes for his finance case study. The silence was comfortable, punctuated by the scratch of Ava's pen and the click of Jake's keyboard.
After an hour, Ava's brain started to fuzz. She leaned back against the couch and stretched her arms overhead, her spine cracking.
"Break?"Jake asked.
"Please."
He closed his laptop. "Okay. Random question."
"Go."
"What's your favorite childhood memory?"
Ava blinked. "That's random."
"I'm trying to get to know you. Beyond the psych textbooks and the gym thing."
She considered the question. Most of her childhood memories were vague now—blurred at the edges, like photographs left in the sun. But one stood out.
"My grandma's kitchen," she said. "She lived in this old house in Vermont, and she had this huge kitchen with yellow curtains. Every summer I'd go visit, and she'd teach me how to make pie. Apple, mostly. She had this thing about making the crust from scratch, and she'd let me roll it out even though I always made a mess."
"You bake?"
"Not anymore. She died when I was fourteen."
The words hung in the air. Ava hadn't meant to say them—hadn't meant to bring the mood down. But Jake didn't flinch.
"What was her name?"he asked.
"Ruth."
"Ruth. That's a good name." Jake leaned back on his hands. "My grandma's still alive. She lives in Florida. Calls me every Sunday to ask if I'm eating enough vegetables."
"Are you?"
"No."
Ava laughed. The sound surprised her—bright and unforced.
"What about you?" she asked. "Favorite childhood memory."
Jake's expression shifted. For a second, something flickered behind his eyes—something guarded, careful.
"Summer camp," he said finally. "I went every year from age eight to fourteen. It was in Maine. No phone service, no internet, no parents. Just trees and a lake and this old canoe that had a hole we had to duct tape every summer."
"That sounds nice."
"It was. It was the only place I felt like I could just be a kid."He paused. "My parents are... complicated. They're always hosting something, always entertaining. There's this pressure to perform. At camp, no one cared who my dad was."
Ava watched him. He was looking at the floor now, his jaw tight. She recognized that look—the look of someone who'd said more than they meant to.
"Complicated how?" she asked softly.
Jake looked up. Met her eyes. For a moment, Ava thought he might deflect—might crack a joke, change the subject, put the mask back on.
Instead, he told her the truth.
"My mom's an alcoholic. Functional, high-performing, but an alcoholic. And my dad pretends she isn't. So the whole house is this weird theater where everyone knows the truth and no one says it."
Ava's chest tightened. "Jake..."
"It's fine. I've dealt with it." He waved a hand. "It's just—that's why I'm not at home much. That's why I go to parties and sleep around and do all the things people judge me for. It's easier than sitting in that house."
The words hit Ava somewhere deep. She understood, in a way she hadn't expected—understood the urge to distract, to numb, to fill the silence with noise so you didn't have to hear yourself think.
"I get that," she said. "More than you know."
Jake looked at her. "What do you mean?"
Ava's throat tightened. She could deflect. She could joke. She could change the subject.
"There was an incident," she said slowly. "When I was seventeen. A concert. There was—" She stopped. Swallowed. "There was a bomb."
Jake went very still.
"I was near the front. Close to the stage. When it went off, I got thrown." She gestured vaguely at her back. "I have scars. All up my back. And I—" Her voice cracked. "I don't do well with crowds. Or loud noises. Or being touched unexpectedly."
She stopped. Her heart was pounding. She'd never said it out loud to anyone except Dr. Hartley and Mia. Never told a guy. Never let someone see that part of her.
Jake didn't speak for a long moment. Then he said, very quietly: "That morning at the gym. When I touched your shoulder."
"That was why."
"God, Ava. I'm so sorry."
"You didn't know."
"I should have. I should have realized something was wrong. I just thought you were shy."
"I'm not shy." Ava met his eyes. "I'm broken."
"No." Jake shook his head. "No. Don't say that. You're not broken. You're surviving."
The words echoed in her head. Everything she feared and hoped it would be. She'd heard them before—from Dr. Hartley, from Mia. But somehow, hearing them from Jake felt different. Felt true.
"You're not what I expected," she said.
"What did you expect?"
"A player. A party guy. Someone who'd get bored and move on."
"I might still get bored and move on."
Ava laughed. "You're such an ass."
"Occupational hazard of being rich and good-looking."
She threw a pillow at him. He caught it, grinning.
Then the grin faded. He set the pillow aside and looked at her—really looked at her.
"Can I tell you something?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"That morning at the gym. When you ran away. I couldn't stop thinking about you. Not because I felt guilty—I did, but that's not it. It was because you were different. You didn't laugh at my jokes just because I made them. You talked back. You thought for yourself."
" That's a low bar."
"It's not. You have no idea how rare that is." He paused. "I want to know you. The real you. Not the gym girl. Not the psych major. You."
Ava's breath caught. The apartment was quiet—just the hum of the space heater, the distant murmur of traffic outside. The light from the floor lamp made everything soft and gold.
He reached toward her.
His fingers moved slowly—so slowly—toward the side of her face. Ava tracked the motion, her heart slamming against her ribs. Her body tensed. Prepared for the freeze.Prepared for the panic.
His fingertips brushed her hair.
He tucked a strand behind her ear.
Ava didn't flinch.
She leaned into his touch. Just a fraction of an inch—just enough to let him know it was okay. His palm settled against her cheek, warm and rough and gentle.
Her eyes fluttered closed.
"Okay?" he whispered.
"Yeah."
She opened her eyes. Jake was close now—close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his gray eyes, the faint scar above his eyebrow, the way his lips parted slightly.
He leaned in.
Not fast. Not demanding. Just slow and questioning.
Ava's breath hitched. Her heart raced. Every alarm in her brain was screaming at her to pull back, to protect herself, to run.
She closed the distance instead.
Their lips met. Soft. Tentative. Like a question and an answer at the same time.
Jake's hand stayed on her cheek. His thumb moved once—back and forth, a slow gentle stroke. His lips were warm and dry and part of her registered that he tasted like coffee and breath.
The kiss deepened. Not much—just enough. Her hand rose and rested on his shoulder. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his crewneck.
He pulled back after a moment. Just an inch. Just enough to look at her.
"Okay?" he asked again.
"Yeah." Her voice came out breathless. "More than okay."
Jake smiled. It was different from his usual smile—softer, less practiced. Like he'd taken off a mask he didn't know he'd been wearing.
Then he leaned in again.
This time, Ava met him halfway.
The second kiss was hungrier. Not aggressive—just more certain. Ava's hand slid up from his shoulder, her fingers threading into the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
Jake made a low sound against her mouth, something between a sigh and a groan.
His palm left her cheek and slid into her hair, cradling the back of her head. His other hand found hers on the floor—their fingers laced together, palm to palm, anchoring her.
Ava let herself fall into it.
His mouth moved against hers with a patience that unraveled something tight in her chest. Every slide of his lips, every brush of his tongue against her bottom lip—she felt it everywhere. In her fingertips. In her spine. In the hollow behind her ribs where the fear usually lived.
She tugged him closer. He followed willingly.
The kiss deepened, and Ava stopped thinking about the scars on her back. Stopped thinking about the bomb, the concert, the years of running. There was only this—only him—only the warmth of his mouth and the weight of his hand in hers.
Then Mia's door flew open.
"Marcus, I swear to God, if you've moved an inch—" Mia was shouting over her shoulder, already halfway to the kitchen. "—I will make you regret every single choice you've ever—"
She stopped.
Ava and Jake flew apart like repelling magnets. Ava's face burned. Her lips were swollen, her hair a disaster, her hand still reaching for Jake's like it hadn't gotten the memo.
Mia stood frozen by the kitchen counter, a water bottle in one hand, her bathrobe hanging open over a tank top and shorts. Her eyes bounced from Ava to Jake to the scattered textbooks to the obvious flush on both their faces.
A beat of silence.
Then Mia let out a squeal that could have shattered glass.
"Oh my GOD."
"Mia—" Ava started.
"OH MY GOD." Mia slammed the water bottle down and clapped both hands over her mouth. Her eyes were huge, sparkling with unholy delight. "You're kissing. You were kissing. On my floor. In my living room. That I pay rent for—"
"You pay half the rent," Ava muttered.
"Semantics." Mia spun on her heel, shouted "STAY" at her bedroom door, then dropped cross-legged onto the floor opposite them like a child waiting for story time. "Okay. I need details. All of them. Names, timelines, how long has this been happening, why didn't you tell me—"
"Mia." Ava's voice came out strangled. "Can you—can you give us a minute?"
"Nope." Mia popped the 'p'. "I've been waiting a year for this. You haven't looked at a guy twice since I met you. Now you're making out with—" She squinted at Jake. "—wait. Are you the gym guy? The one who touched her arm?"
Jake cleared his throat. "That's me."
"The one she ran away from?"
"Also me."
"The one she had coffee with last week and came home giggling like a lunatic?"
Ava buried her face in her hands. "Oh my God."
Jake laughed. The sound was warm, a little embarrassed, but not uncomfortable. "That's me too."
Mia's grin softened. She looked at Ava—really looked at her—and something passed between them. Something older than words.
"Good," Mia said quietly. "He seems good."
From behind Mia's door came a muffled whimper. Then another. Then a longer, pitched sound that was definitely not a whimper.
Jake's eyebrows drew together. "What's going on in there?"
Mia waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, that's just Marcus."
"Marcus?"
"My boytoy." She said it like she was explaining the weather. "He's spread-eagled on my bed, bound to the corners. I stuffed my gym socks in his mouth after I caught him trying to come without permission. Clamps on his nipples. Butt plug vibrating in his ass."
Ava's face went from red to crimson to something resembling a fire engine.
Jake blinked. Then blinked again. Then burst out laughing—a full, genuine, belly-deep laugh that echoed off the apartment walls.
"That's—" He wheezed. "That's the best thing I've ever heard."
"He came all over himself like a teenager," Mia continued, utterly deadpan. "Without permission. So I'm getting a drink, and then I'm going back in there to make him regret every decision that led him to this moment."
Ava made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a plea. "Mia. Please."
"What? He knew the rules." Mia stood up and grabbed her water bottle. She took a long drink, then pointed at Jake. "You. I like you. You laughed instead of running. That's a good sign."
Jake was still chuckling. "I'm honored."
"You should be." Mia headed back toward her room. She paused at the door, looking over her shoulder at Ava. "Use protection."
"Mia!"
"Night, you two." Mia disappeared into her bedroom and shut the door.
For a second, there was silence.
Then a shriek erupted from behind the door—followed by a low, guttural moan that seemed to go on forever.
Ava and Jake looked at each other.
Then they both burst out laughing.
"Oh my God," Ava gasped, wiping her eyes. "I'm so sorry. She's—she's a lot."
"She's incredible." Jake shook his head. "I'm serious. That was the best thing that's ever happened to me."
"You have low standards."
"I have high standards. She just met them."
They laughed again, quieter this time. The mood shifted—still warm, still light, but softer. More private.
Jake looked at Ava. His eyes were steady, kind, and something else. Something that made her stomach flip.
"So," he said.
"So."
"Your room?"
Ava's heart stuttered. She looked at the hallway—at the closed door of her own bedroom. It wasn't a question with pressure behind it. Just an offer. An option.
She thought about the scars on her back. About the way she'd flinched at his touch a week ago. About the panic that still lived just beneath her skin, waiting.
Then she thought about his hand in hers. His mouth on hers. The way he'd walked on the outside of the sidewalk. The way he'd told her about his mom. The way he'd laughed when Mia threatened him with nothing more than an approving nod."Okay," she said.
She stood up. Jake stood too. They gathered nothing—just left the textbooks scattered across the floor and the lamp burning and the space heater humming.
Ava led him down the hall. Past Mia's door, where the sounds had escalated to something rhythmic and desperate. Past the bathroom. To the last door on the left.
She pushed it open.
Her room was small but clean. Fairy lights strung along the headboard. A stack of books on the nightstand. The window cracked just enough to let in the cool night air.
Jake stepped inside and looked around. Then he looked at her.
"This is you," he said.
"Is that a good thing?"
"It's a very good thing."
Ava closed the door behind them.
The room felt smaller with him in it.
Not in a bad way—in a way that made everything sharper, more vivid. The fairy lights cast tiny constellations across the ceiling. The window let in a sliver of moonlight, thin and silver. And Jake stood by the foot of her bed, looking at her like she was something worth looking at.
Ava's hands hung at her sides. Her heart was doing something complicated in her chest—part thrill, part terror, part something she couldn't name.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Yeah." She swallowed. "Just—nervous."
"We don't have to do anything. I meant what I said. I'm not here to push."
"I know." She stepped closer. "That's why I want to."
He didn't move. Just watched her, patient as a stone. The space between them shrank to inches.
Ava went shy for a second. Her eyes dropped to the floor, her cheeks flushing pink. The old instinct—the one that screamed run, hide, protect—flickered in her chest.
She stepped forward anyway.
Her lips found his. Soft at first. A question. His mouth curved against hers, and his hands stayed at his sides, letting her set the pace.
She kissed him again. Deeper. Her fingers curled into the collar of his shirt, tugging him closer.
Jake responded. His hands rose—slow, giving her time to pull away—and settled on her waist. The heat of his palms bled through the thin cotton of her t-shirt.
Ava's breath hitched. Not from fear. From want.
Her hands slid up his chest, feeling the hard planes beneath the fabric. He was solid—warm and real and nothing like the ghosts she'd been running from.
The kiss deepened. His tongue brushed her bottom lip, asking. She opened for him, and he tasted like coffee and mint and something else—something that was just him.
Jake walked her backward. One step. Two. Her spine met the wall with a soft thud.
Electricity shot through her. Not pain. Not panic. Anticipation. Her body pressed into his, and she felt every inch of him—the firmness of his chest, the strength in his arms, the hard length of his cock against her stomach through his jeans.
She gasped against his mouth.
His hands slid lower. Over the curve of her hips, down to her ass. He squeezed—gentle, questioning—and Ava arched into him.
They broke apart, breathing hard.
Jake's forehead rested against hers. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. "You okay?"
"Yeah." Her voice came out rough.
"How far do you want to go?"
The question hung between them. Ava's pulse hammered in her throat. She thought about the scars on her back. About the way her body sometimes betrayed her. About all the reasons she should say stop.
"I don't want to go all the way," she said."Not yet."
Jake nodded. No pressure. No disappointment. Just acceptance. "Okay."
"But—" She caught his shirt in her fists. "—that doesn't mean I want to stop completely."
His grin was slow and wicked and devastating. "Thank God."
He kissed her again. Harder this time. Hungrier. His hands stayed on her ass, kneading and squeezing in a way that made her toes curl. She moaned into his mouth and felt him smile against her lips.
They stumbled toward the bed. Ava's knees hit the mattress, and she fell backward, pulling him with her. They landed in a tangle of limbs—laughing, breathless, alive.
She straddled his hips. His hands found her ass again, settling there like they belonged. She could feel him beneath her—hard and thick and straining against his zipper.
She ground against him without thinking. Jake groaned. His fingers dug into her flesh.
"Fuck," he breathed.
Ava grinned. She felt powerful. Felt wanted. Felt like the version of herself she'd thought was dead.
She pulled at his shirt. He helped her—lifting his arms, letting her peel the fabric over his head. And then he was bare beneath her, all muscle and skin and heat.
Her lips traced over his pecs. Down his sternum. Across the ridges of his abs. She tasted salt and soap and something addictive.
Jake's breath came in short bursts. His hands stayed on her ass—never straying higher or lower. Never pushing.
Ava shimmied out of her jeans. The denim caught on her hips, and she wiggled, and Jake laughed and helped her tug them free. Then his hands were on her bare thighs, tracing the line of her muscles, the curve of her hips.
He didn't touch her between her legs. Didn't hook his fingers under the waistband of her panties. Just stroked her skin—slow and reverent—like he was memorizing her.
She loved him for it.
Not love love. But something close. Something that felt like gratitude, like trust, like the first step toward something bigger.
They kissed for what felt like hours. Bodies sliding together. Skin against skin. Her hair falling around them like a curtain.
From somewhere beyond the wall came a rhythmic thumping. Then a muffled shout. Then a long, drawn-out groan that was definitely Marcus.
Ava giggled against Jake's mouth.
He snorted. "Is that—"
"Don't ask."
"I'm asking."
"Mia's lifestyle." Ava kissed his jaw. "Just ignore it."
Another thump. Another moan. This one higher-pitched—almost a squeal.
Jake's chest shook with laughter. "I can't ignore that. That's a human in distress."
"He's not in distress. He's in subspace."
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"I'll explain when you're older."
Jake flipped her over. Suddenly she was beneath him, her back against the mattress, his body covering hers. He propped himself on his elbows, careful not to crush her.
"You're a menace," he said.
"You started it."
"I asked for a study session."
"And you got one. With extra credit."
He laughed. The sound rumbled through his chest and into hers. She felt it everywhere.
He dipped his head and kissed her neck. Soft. Wet. His teeth grazed her pulse point, and she shivered.
"Okay?" he murmured against her skin.
"More than okay."
He kissed lower. Collarbone. Shoulder. He paused at the edge of her shirt, looking up at her with a question in his eyes.
She nodded.
He pushed the fabric up—slow, so slow—exposing her stomach first. Then her ribs. Then the underside of her breasts.
Then he stopped.
Not because of her scars. They were on her back—he couldn't see them from this angle.
He stopped because he wanted to look at her. Because his eyes traced every inch of her skin like he was reading a map of something precious.
"You're beautiful," he said.
Ava's throat tightened. "You don't have to say that."
"I know I don't." He kissed her stomach. "I'm saying it because it's true."
She pulled him up. She couldn't handle the tenderness—not yet. But she could handle his mouth on hers. Could handle his hands in her hair. Could handle the weight of him pressing her into the mattress.
They kept kissing. Kept touching. Kept learning each other's bodies in the dim light of her bedroom.
Through the wall, Mia's bed kept creaking. Marcus kept making sounds that were somewhere between agony and ecstasy. And Ava kept giggling—kept feeling light and free and alive in a way she hadn't felt in years.
Jake's hands never wandered where she didn't want them. His mouth never demanded more than she was willing to give. He followed her lead—matched her pace—let her set the boundaries.
And when they finally collapsed side by side, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling, Ava reached for his hand.
He laced his fingers through hers. Squeezed.
"You okay?" he asked for the third time that night.
She turned her head. Looked at him. Really looked. His hair was a mess. His lips were swollen. There was a faint red mark on his neck where she'd gotten carried away.
"Yeah," she said."I'm okay."
He smiled. That soft smile—the one that was just for her.
From beyond the wall came one final, earth-shattering shriek. Then silence.
Jake's eyebrows shot up. "Did he—"
"Probably."
"We should check on him."
"You want to check on Mia's tied-up boytoy?"
"I want to make sure he's alive."
"He's alive." Ava rolled onto her side, facing him. "He's probably just coming down from the best orgasm of his life."
Jake winced. "I'm uncomfortable."
"With the orgasm?"
"With the idea that my new girlfriend's roommate has a sex dungeon."
Ava froze.
Girlfriend.
The word hung in the air between them. She hadn't said it. He had. And now it was loose in the world, unclaimed and terrifying.
Jake seemed to realize what he'd said. His eyes widened slightly. "I mean—if you want—I shouldn't have assumed—"
"Girlfriend," Ava repeated.
"Yeah." He swallowed. "Is that—is that okay?"
She thought about it. Thought about the scars on her back and the panic in her chest. Thought about the way he'd asked permission before every touch. Thought about the way he'd laughed at Mia's chaos instead of running.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay like you're agreeing? Or okay like you're just saying words?"
"Okay like I'm agreeing." She squeezed his hand. "Girlfriend."
Jake's grin could have lit up the whole city.
He leaned over and kissed her. Soft. Sweet. A promise.
Then Ava's door banged open again.
"Ava! Ava, is your boy still here? Marcus wants to know if he can borrow a shirt—oh."
Mia stood in the doorway of Ava's bedroom. Her bathrobe was gone. She was wearing an oversized t-shirt and a pair of boxers that definitely weren't hers. Her hair was a disaster. Her neck was covered in marks.
Behind her, a very naked, very flushed Marcus was wrapped in a bedsheet, looking mortified.
Jake stared.
Ava stared.
Mia grinned.
"So," she said. "Girlfriend, huh?"
"You heard that?" Ava squeaked.
"These walls are thin. I hear everything." Mia winked. "Congrats, by the way. You two are cute."
She grabbed a shirt from Ava's floor—one of Jake's, actually, discarded earlier—and tossed it to Marcus. "Here. Wear this home."
Marcus caught it. "Thanks." His voice was hoarse. He looked at Ava. "Sorry about the—the noises."
"It's fine." Ava's face was on fire. "I'm used to it."
"Good. I mean—not good—I mean—" He pulled the shirt over his head. "I'm gonna go."
He shuffled down the hallway. The front door opened. Closed.
Mia leaned against the doorframe. "You're welcome."
"For what?"
"For breaking the ice. Now you two can stop pretending you're just study buddies."
"We weren't pretending."
"Sure you weren't." Mia pushed off the frame. "Night, lovebirds. Try to keep it down."
She disappeared back into her room. The door clicked shut.
Silence.
Then Jake started laughing.
It was contagious. Ava laughed too—full-body, tears-in-her-eyes, can't-breathe laughing. They rolled toward each other, clutching their stomachs, gasping for air.
When they finally calmed down, Jake reached over and brushed a strand of hair from her face.
"You have a weird life," he said.
"I know."
"I like it."
"You do?"
"Yeah." He kissed her forehead. "It's real. You're real."
Ava closed her eyes. His lips lingered on her skin, warm and steady.
For the first time in eighteen months, she didn't want to run.
She wanted to stay.