Page 11 of Desired By Diesel
I should go back to bed. I should leave him alone. It's late, and we're neighbors, and I don't need to complicate my already complicated life by?—
I'm already opening the back door.
The night air is cool against my bare legs as I cross the yard. He doesn't turn, but I see his posture shift. He knows I'm coming.
"Can't sleep?" he asks when I reach him.
"How'd you guess?"
He tilts his head toward the empty spot next to him on the steps. An invitation.
I sit. Not too close, but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him. He's in jeans and a black t-shirt, nothing special, but the way the fabric stretches across his shoulders makes my mouth go dry.
Get it together, Gracie.
"Amelia with her dad?" he asks.
"Yeah. For the weekend."
He nods. Doesn't push. Doesn't ask questions I don't want to answer.
We sit in silence for a minute. It should be awkward — two people who barely know each other, sitting on a porch in the middle of the night — but it's not. There's something easy about being next to him. Something that makes the knot in my chest loosen, just a little.
"Rough day?" he asks finally.
I laugh, but it comes out shaky. "That obvious?"
"You came outside at eleven o'clock to sit with a guy you barely know. Kind of a giveaway."
"Fair point." I pull my knees up, wrapping my arms around them. "It's just... my ex. He has a way of getting in my head."
Diesel takes a sip of his beer. "He hurt you?"
The question is casual. The look in his eyes isn't.
"Not the way you're thinking," I say carefully. "He never hit me. Never even raised his voice. But he..." I trail off, not sure how to explain it. "He made me feel small. Controlled everything — what I wore, who I talked to, how I spent my time. And when I tried to push back, he'd twist things around until I wasn't sure what was real anymore."
Diesel doesn't say anything for a long moment. "That's still hurt."
Something loosens in my chest. I've tried to explain this to people before — my mom, my friends, even my lawyer — and they always say the same thing. But he never hit you. At least he wasn't violent. Like that's the only metric that matters. Like the slow erosion of everything I was doesn't count because it didn't leave visible bruises.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "It is."
He turns to look at me, and the weight of his gaze makes my breath catch. Dark eyes, steady and serious.
"He's not going to touch you again," he says. "Not while I'm next door."
It's not a grand declaration. He doesn't puff up or make threats or try to be a hero. He just says it, simple and direct, like it's a fact. Like it's already decided.
And God help me, I believe him.
"You don't even know me," I whisper.
"I know enough."
The air between us shifts. Charged, suddenly. I'm aware of how close we're sitting, of the heat of his body next to mine, of the way his eyes drop to my mouth for just a second before coming back up.
"I'm a mess," I tell him. "I've got more baggage than an airport carousel. I'm twenty-seven with a kid and an ex who's trying to destroy me, and I haven't been on a date in eight years, and I don't even know what I'm doing out here?—"
