Page 57 of Craving the Edge

Char stood in the archway, her small frame swallowed by my hoodie. The fabric hung off her shoulders and the sleeves drooped past her fingertips. Her face was pale, but the shock she’d been processing at the diner was gone.

I reached for the remote on the coffee table and killed the power. The room fell silent.

“How’d you sleep?” I asked.

She gave a tiny shrug, the movement barely registering inside the mass of my hoodie. “Okay.” Her eyes shifted to the wide glass windows, to the flat grey light of the Melbourne morning. “Can you take me home now?”

“Yeah. Of course.” I started to push myself up from the couch, ready to grab my keys. “You alright?”

“I just want to get back to my place,” she said. “I want to shower and change. Put on clothes that don’t smell like smoke. My hair smells like a barbecue.”

A smile pulled at one side of my mouth. Pure Char. Practical to the end. “Anything you want.”

I grabbed my keys and we left. I drove without the radio on, the only sound the low rumble of the engine. For once, the silence between us felt easy. No unspoken arguments, no tension crackling in the space between the seats. Just quiet.

The turn off for Sydney Road loomed ahead. I flicked the indicator and turned left instead, taking the narrow backstreets of Brunswick. I kept my eyes on the road but was hyperaware of her beside me. She sat with one hand on her lap, the other resting against the window, staring out at the blur of brick fences and graffiti-covered wheelie bins. If she noticed we were taking the long way around, the one that avoided any chance of driving past the gym, she didn’t say anything.

I pulled up outside a two-storey block of flats, the kind built from ugly brown brick that screamed nineteen seventies. A row of weathered carports sat underneath, one for each unit.

“This is me,” she said. “Number seven.”

I killed the engine. “I’ll walk you in.”

She shook her head, not looking at me. “Nah, you don’t want to see inside. It’s a nightmare. Orange bench tops, mustard carpet, the works.”

“I don’t give a shit what colour the bench tops are, Char.”

Her head finally turned. Her eyes, still red-rimmed and exhausted, searched mine for a long moment.

“I just want to see you to your door,” I murmured. I put the car back into gear and eased it into the empty carport marked with a faded number seven.

We got out and Char led me up a short flight of concrete stairs to a narrow walkway. She stopped at the second door on the left and fished a set of keys from the front pocket of my hoodie. The lock clicked loudly in the quiet of the morning.

She pushed the door open and I followed her inside.

The place was exactly what she’d promised. A small lounge room with cheap, flat-pack furniture flowed into a kitchen dominated by a hideous orange laminate bench.

But it was still hers. The neat stack of books on the small coffee table, the way a single black hoodie was folded over the back of the couch. It was lived in, but only just. There were no photos on the walls, no magnets on the fridge, and none of the usual clutter people collected. It looked like she could pack it all into a single car boot in under an hour.

I was angry on her behalf. Angry for the fact she lived her life like she was ready for the emergency exit.

Staying here wasn’t an option. The fight was two weeks away. I needed to leave for Sydney, but the thought of getting on a plane while she was dealing with this mess felt wrong.

A reckless thought took hold. It was a stupid idea. One that’d make Rhys have a complete fucking meltdown and the media would have a field day if they caught wind…but watching her stand there, looking so small and so alone in her own home, I didn’t give a damn.

“I have to go to Sydney,” I said. “I need to leave tomorrow, or the day after at the latest.”

Her expression didn’t change, but a familiar guard slid back into place. “I know.”

“I don’t know what this is.” I gestured vaguely between the two of us. “But I know I’m not ready for it to be over.”

Her gaze dropped to the floor, to the worn patch of carpet by her feet. A long moment passed. When she looked up again, the hardness in her eyes had softened. “I don’t know what it is either.”

“I’m not going to stand here and pretend it’s not complicated,” I said.

A flicker of something crossed her face. “It’s very complicated.”

I closed the small distance between us. She didn’t move. I lifted my hands and threaded my fingers into the soft, dark hair at the nape of her neck. Her skin was warm. I lowered my head and kissed her slowly, with none of the desperate energy that’d defined us until now. It wasn’t about dominating, claiming, or fucking. It was about showing her the truth. That she mattered to me.