Ruth’s POV
The couch felt too large, too quiet. I sat hunched at one end, knees drawn close, phone buzzing against my palm with a message that made my stomach knot: LORENZO MISSED HIS FLIGHT. NO ONE’S HEARD FROM HIM.
I read it twice, then again. The gallery rep’s name blinked at the top of the thread. Polite, unconcerned on the surface. But the message underneath was louder. I hadn’t seen Lorenzo since that day at the museum. His words had come with polish, but his presence had lingered like a film over my skin. Too much eye contact, too much precision, and when he’d handed me his card, his hand had stayed on my wrist just a second too long. Not possessive, not quite inappropriate. But wrong.
It had triggered something in me that I couldn’t place at the time. Now, sitting with the news of his disappearance, the feeling had shape. I didn’t think, I just grabbed my keys. The walk to Emmett’s property was fast, automatic. The shed behind his house was open, a soft hum of machinery barely covering the scrape of metal against wood. He was inside, working, always working. He didn’t look up when I stepped in. But I knew he’d seen me, he always did.
“Lorenzo’s missing,” I said. The wrench in his hand paused, just for a beat.
His shoulders tensed, and then he went back to wiping down a steel surface. “Maybe he needed to disappear.”
I blinked. “What?” He didn’t explain. Just grabbed a cloth and kept his eyes down, slow strokes across metal like it mattered more than what I’d said.
“That’s not funny.”
“Wasn’t meant to be.”
“He may have been intense, but he’s still a person.”
He turned slightly at that. “Why do you care?”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
“I don’t know,” I finally said. “Because someone should, I guess.”
But the words didn’t even sound true to me. There was something else underneath. Not worry, not even concern. Something colder, like guilt, like fear.
Emmett tossed the cloth onto the table, turned fully now. His voice was quieter when he asked, “Did he touch you?”
The question made me stiff. I hesitated.
“It wasn’t... it wasn’t just the touch,” I said. “It was the way he looked at me. It made me feel like I was back there again. That place I thought I buried. Like I was ten and strapped in and no one could hear me.”
He didn’t speak right away. His eyes moved across my face, careful, unreadable. Then, slowly, he reached out and touched the edge of my jaw, his fingers brushing under my ear with startling gentleness.
“Lorenzo isn’t your problem anymore.”
It was the way he said it. Calm, steady, and certain. Like he was telling me it had already been decided. A chill crept over me. I opened my mouth to ask what that meant, but I stopped. His eyes were too intense. Not threatening, just final. I turned to leave. His hand caught mine, not with force. Just enough to stop me from walking away.
“I need to tell you something,” he said, “but you have to stay. You have to listen.”
My heart was hammered. I nodded. He let go of my hand slowly, then his fingers moved to his mask. He paused once, watching me like he expected me to bolt. When I didn’t, he pulled it down. The scar was visible in full now. A harsh line from the corner of his mouth to his cheekbone.
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t look away. He stepped closer. And then he kissed me.
It wasn’t soft. I wasn't careful. It was full of need, a raw pull of his mouth against mine that felt like months of silence breaking at once. My back hit the wall before I realized we’d moved. I kissed him back, harder.
His hands braced against the wall on either side of me. His body pressed close, heat radiating off him in waves. When he finally pulled away, breath ragged, he said it low against my lips.
“I’m not going to stop this time.”