Page 41 of Mack

He turned to look at her then, and she was already looking at him, the distance between them was almost nothing.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

She searched his face like she was looking for the catch. He let her look. He had nothing to hide.

“That’s what scares me,” she admitted.

He nodded slowly. He understood that too. Hope was its own kind of risk. Sometimes the scariest thing wasn’t the danger. It was believing, for the first time in a long time, that maybe there wasn’t any.

He reached over, took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers, and waited.

She didn’t pull away.

His phone went off.

The vibration against the nightstand cut through the quiet like something deliberate. He closed his eyes for half a second. Then reached for it.

Dispatch. He knew before he answered.

“Reinhardt.” He listened, already moving, already calculating. Bad one out on Copper Ridge, two vehicles, possible injuries. Closest unit.

“I’m on my way. Ten minutes.”

He ended the call and sat there for just a moment longer, her hand still in his.

“You have to go,” Mallory said.

“Wreck out on Copper Ridge.” He reached for his shirt. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s your job.”

He knew that. He still hated it. The timing of it sat in his chest like a stone, leaving now, leaving her here with everything they’d just said still hanging in the air, unresolved and fragile.

He pulled his boots on, stood, and she stayed where she was on the bed, knees drawn back up, watching him. She’d rebuilt some of her composure while he was moving. He could see it happening, the small careful reassembly of her walls. He didn’t blame her. It was what she knew how to do.

He crossed back to her before he left. Tipped her chin up and pressed a kiss to her forehead, slow and deliberate, nothing rushed about it despite the dispatch call still ringing in his ears.

He felt her go still beneath it.

“I’ll call you,” he said against her hair.

“Okay.”

He pulled back and looked at her. “I mean it, Mallory.”

Something moved across her face. Not quite a smile but close. “I know.”

He made himself leave.

He was halfway down the hall when he heard her, quiet enough that he almost missed it.

“Be careful.”

He stopped at the door, hand on the frame. Copper Ridge was nobody’s idea of an easy call. Three miles of switchbacks between Clifton and Hartland with no guardrails to speak of and a reputation that made seasoned deputies grit their teeth.

“Always,” he said, and meant it more than usual.

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