Ruth’s POV
The knock came late in the afternoon, soft but deliberate. I didn’t hesitate this time.
My feet were already moving by the time the sound finished echoing, I didn’t need to guess who it was. Emmett stood just as I expected, black shirt, gloved hands, hood pulled halfway up, and a small canvas tool bag in one hand.
“Your front gate’s leaning,” he said, voice low, not quite meeting my eyes. “I can fix it.”
I could’ve told him it wasn’t urgent, that it had been leaning since the week I moved in and hadn’t bothered me once. But I knew it wasn’t about the gate, so I only nodded and stepped aside. “Tools in the bag or do you need more?”
He shook his head once and moved past me with silent precision, heading toward the side of the house like he’d been here dozens of times, maybe he had. I watched him through the kitchen window. He worked efficiently, measuring the hinge, inspecting the posts, his movements all muscle and calculation. There was something strangely comforting about the way he moved, like nothing startled him. Like he already knew every outcome before it happened.
After a while, I grabbed a glass, filled it with cold water, and walked outside. He looked up when I approached, his eyes unreadable behind the mask. I offered the glass without a word.
“Thanks.”
I leaned against the porch post while he drank. “You always this handy or just with broken things on my property?”
He glanced at the fence, then at me. “I fix what needs fixing.”
“That’s a vague job description.” He didn’t reply, but his gaze held. Not casual or distracted, focused like he was trying to take something apart in his head, and it wasn’t the gate.
After a beat, he said, “Your studio’s full. But not all of it’s in galleries.” It wasn’t a question.
“No. Some pieces stay with me,” I said, folding my arms, suddenly self-conscious. “The ones I show… they’re easier to let go of.”
“And the others?”
“They’re harder. Some paintings carry too much.”
He didn’t nod or speak. He just kept looking, like he already knew which ones I meant. He knelt again, tightening a hinge. When he stood up, I stepped closer without meaning to. Our hands brushed, barely. It wasn’t significant, it wasn’t anything. But the reaction was instant, my breath stilled. My fingers twitched, not from fear, but from something else. Something warmer, lower, deeper. I didn’t pull away, he did. Half a step back, like the contact mattered too much. Then his voice cut the air.
“You never said anything. About the audio.”
I didn’t look away. “I didn’t want it to stop.”
The shift was immediate. His jaw tightened, his shoulders stiffened, but the mask couldn’t hide the flicker in his eyes. Not anger, or surprise, just something hotter.
I turned before the air between us could thicken further and walked back toward the door. The sound of his boots followed. Then the door shut behind us, that sound, the click, was too final. He stood just inside, a few steps behind me.
“I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” he said. I didn’t move.
“I watch because I protect. Not because I want to hurt you.”
My hand gripped the edge of the kitchen counter. “Then why don’t you stop?” Silence.
“I don’t know how.” The truth didn’t shock me. It melted through the quiet like it had been waiting.
“I don’t know if I want you to,” I said.
He moved slowly, just enough to close the distance, but not enough to touch. His hand hovered near my wrist, fingers flexing like he wanted to feel skin. But he never closed the space. We stood like that, barely breathing. Not talking, or touching. Just letting the weight of it sit between us. When he turned and left, he didn’t explain. He didn’t promise to come back, he didn’t say a word. The door closed with a soft thud, and I stayed frozen in place.
Later that night, when the house was dark and too quiet, I lit a single lamp in my studio. The canvas in the corner called me. I uncovered it, blank, and white. I painted what it felt like to be seen, not in fear, but in something closer to need. I painted the shape of a presence without form. A figure at the edge of something private. Eyes that didn’t shame, silence that didn’t threaten.
By the time I finished, the sky had started to pale. My phone buzzed. No subject or words, just an attachment. I opened it, revealing a charcoal sketch. Me, barefoot in the meadow, head tilted back, hair loose. And behind me, in the shadows of the trees, almost invisible unless you looked closely… Him.