Page 51 of This Life of Mine

“Thank you,” she says again, staring out the window. Softer this time. Real.

“You don’t owe me anything,” I reply.

When we pull up to her place following the GPS on her car toHome, she exhales like she’s been holding her breath the entire drive.

I kill the engine and get out first, instinctively scanning the street, the shadows, the angles of the house. Everything looks quiet. Normal. I don’t trust that word.

I carefully help her out of the Bronco.

We walk up the driveway and up to her front door. She punches in her door code to open the door. Once inside, I keep my movements casual, unhurried, but my eyes are everywhere: windows, corners, doors, anything that doesn’t sit right.

I note the layout without making it obvious. Old habits don’t turn off.

She leans into the wall for a moment, and I’m there before she has to ask. I guide her carefully down the hall, into her bedroom, helping her sit. She winces but doesn’t complain.

“Get some rest, Lina.”

She nods, eyes shining but steady. “Thank you…for everything. Tonight could’ve been really bad.”

“Could have, but wasn’t,” I say simply. “That’s what matters.”

She exhales, slow and shaky, as the last of the adrenaline leaves her body. She looks down at her hands and flexes her fingers, as if making sure they still belong to her.

“I should’ve called the cops,” she says, releasing a breath. “The second I saw him out there. I knew better.”

I don’t interrupt. I let her talk.

“I think part of me thought…I need to face him,” she continues. A small, humorless laugh escapes her. “I’ve always been afraid that if I pushed too hard—if I demanded justice—it would mean I was still letting him control me.”

“Cole and I have quite the history.”

She looks up, meeting my gaze. There’s no panic in her eyes now. Only honesty.

“I was too easy on him for so many years,” she admits. “I let things slide. I walked away without a word. I convinced myself that staying silent was strength.” She exhales, shaking her head.

“But I don’t have any idea when that became habit—when protecting him became automatic. I was conditioned to preserve his image for so long that I never learned how to stop. Or even if I was allowed to.”

Her jaw tightens.

“I wanted to say the things I never got to say when I left him. Things I was too scared, too worn down, too small to say.” She lifts her chin slightly.

“I believed I was strong enough now. Mentally. Physically.” A pause. “I mean it felt so good to say what I wanted. Just turns out I was wearing the wrong ass-kicking outfit for what was to come from it.”

Despite myself, a hint of amusement graces my lips. She notices and huffs with a soft laugh.

“I really did think I could handle it,” she says. “And maybe someday I can. Just…not yet.”

“You’re not wrong for wanting closure,” I tell her, steady and certain. “But closure doesn’t come from confronting someone who thrives on chaos. It comes from consequences.”

She absorbs that. Nods once.

“I know,” she says. “And I think tonight opened my eyes. Being kind doesn’t mean being passive. And walking away doesn’t mean staying silent forever.”

Good.

I straighten, giving her space again, keeping the line where it belongs. At the door, I pause.

“I’m sorry to drop all of this on you. I suppose I thought I had to clarify the circumstances,” she explains.