Rain still clung to his hair when Julia dragged Brandon inside, the porch door slamming behind them. Her hands shook as she pressed the towel to his shoulders, as if she could erase the storm from his skin. His breath was uneven—too close, too warm, too charged. She tried to steady her fingers, but touching him felt like standing too close to the edge of something she wasn’t ready to name.
“You could’ve died up there,” she whispered.
“And you came after me anyway.” His eyes lifted, searching hers. “Why?”
Julia swallowed. “Because—”
The creak of floorboards cut her off.
Mrs. Bailey stood in the doorway, her gaze sharp as a blade. She took in the scene: her daughter kneeling before a soaked man, her palms pressed to his chest, her face inches from his.
Her silence was a verdict.
Julia
