Page 73 of The Embers That Remain

I gave an exaggerated eye roll.

His grin lingered as he drew closer, but the second he stepped into the beam from the security lights, something changed. His eyes moved over my face slowly. They paused at the discoloration on my cheek, flicked back to my eyes like he was replaying the last few seconds and trying to figure out how he’d missed it. My stomach dropped. I fished through my purse for my keys, suddenly fascinated by the zipper. Anything to avoid looking up and seeing that familiar look in his eyes—the one that always made me feel like I could finally put something down.

The playful expression disappeared. “What happened?”

I stood frozen in place.

He closed the distance between us, his gaze fixed on my face. “Your face. You covered most of it.” His voice had gone strangely quiet.

Instinctively, my hand flew to my cheek. His fingers curled so firmly around his keys the metal bit into his palm. He didn’t seem to notice. A muscle feathered along his jaw. Every trace of humor vanished. His chest rose once before he spoke.

“Who did this to you?”

My heart slammed against my ribs. There it was. The question I knew was coming the second his eyes fixed on me. I could already hear the edge in his voice—the one that appeared whenever someone he loved was hurting. The one that made him step between me and the world before I could decide if I wanted him there.

I knew exactly what came next—the need to fix everything, the need to protect, the part of Lane I had spent years convincing myself I didn’t miss.

It was that protective instinct that made my first reaction to reach for him and my second reaction to remind me why I shouldn’t.

He lifted the other hand, hesitated—as if asking permission without saying the words—then brushed his thumb, featherlight, beneath my eye. His hand dropped as if in slow motion.

“It looks worse than it is. It was an accident.”

His stare didn’t waver. “Who?”

“Lane . . .”

His hands flexed at his sides before he forced them to be still. His voice dropped lower. “Who?”

“It’s not what you’re thinking.”

“Then tell me what I'm supposed to be thinking.”

The words cracked between us. I looked toward The Hope Center instead of at him. Sawyer was still inside stacking chairs. A volunteer loaded boxes into her SUV.

Anywhere but him. Because looking at Lane when he was angry was easy; looking at him when he was hurting was something I didn’t know how to survive.

“It was Grandpa.”

For a second, the anger on his face had nowhere to go. He closed his eyes for one long second.

“He had a UTI.” I rushed on before he could say anything. “He got confused and was combative, but that was caused by the infection. He’s coming home tomorrow from the hospital.”

The tension in his shoulders shifted, but it didn’t disappear. Like he understood the reason, but his instincts hadn’t caught up yet.

“And you stayed there with him?”

I frowned. “Of course I did.”

A muscle jumped along his jaw. “Cali—”

“He’s my grandfather.”

“I know that.” His voice softened, but his expression didn’t. “I know you’d never walk away from him.”

A beat passed.

“I just hate that you think being strong means you have to carry everything alone.” The words echoed somewhere deeper than I wanted them to.