Chapter Fifteen - The Line He’s Trying Not to Cross
1064 Words
Ronan leaned against the wall outside the garage, arms crossed, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. He hadn’t smoked it. Just held it there like it was giving him time to think.
He watched her.
Evelyn.
Sitting on the porch, wine glass in hand, cheeks pink from laughter. Remy was beside her, telling some ridiculous story that had Evelyn doubling over, one hand covering her mouth as she tried—and failed—to keep quiet.
She looked… alive.
Different than the girl they’d found all those weeks ago. She wasn’t clinging to silence anymore. She wasn’t disappearing into corners. There was color in her face now. Curiosity in her eyes. A softness blooming where there used to be nothing but tension.
And it was getting harder for him to ignore the way that shift affected him.
At first, he told himself it was about safety. About duty. She was Reed’s daughter, and whether the bastard deserved the title “father” or not, it complicated everything.
But over time… protecting her stopped feeling like a task.
It started to feel personal.
Dangerously personal.
He blew out a breath, watching the smoke curl into the summer air.
She’d come into the kitchen that morning—barefoot, hair up, wearing nothing but that soft hoodie and sleepy eyes—and something in his chest had tightened. Not in a way he could reason away.
It was the kind of tension that came with wanting.
Not just her body—though f**k, he wasn’t blind. But something deeper. Something slower. Like his mind couldn’t stop circling her name, her laugh, the way she bit her lip when she was thinking too hard.
He ran a hand through his hair, jaw clenched.
He’d been holding himself back. Carefully.
Because Evelyn deserved time. Space. Safety.
He’d promised himself he’d give her all three.
But now she was looking at him differently. Meeting his eyes longer. Smiling in a way that wasn’t just polite—it was aware.
Curious.
And if he wasn’t careful, one of these days he was going to stop holding back.
He ground the cigarette out on the wall behind him, eyes still locked on her.
She didn’t see him watching.
But he saw her.
And God help him, if she ever gave him the green light—if she ever looked at him like she wanted more—he wasn’t sure he’d survive holding the line he’d drawn in the sand.
Because Evelyn wasn’t just healing.
She was waking up.
And so was everything in him that had tried like hell to stay dormant.
Ronan was in the common room, going over inventory logs on his tablet when he felt her before he saw her.
That shift in the air.
That soft awareness.
He looked up—slow, cautious.
Evelyn.
She stood at the entrance to the room, tucked into a lightweight sweater and tight black leggings, hair down, eyes curious. Her cheeks were still a little pink from the wine earlier, her lips slightly parted like she was debating whether to come in or back out.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
She stepped in anyway.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said quietly.
“You’re not,” he replied, setting the tablet down.
She came closer, fingers grazing the back of the armchair near him like she needed something to tether herself to.
“I just needed a quieter space,” she said. “The porch got cold.”
Ronan nodded. “You’re welcome here. Always.”
That made her look up at him.
Really look.
And something in that gaze twisted low in his gut.
It wasn’t innocent.
Not fully.
She didn’t flirt—she didn’t know how—but her eyes lingered a second too long on his mouth, then dropped to his hands. Not with shame. With thought.
Ronan sat very still.
“I’m still figuring it all out,” she said softly, almost to herself. “What feels safe. What doesn’t.”
“You’re doing good,” he said, voice rougher than he meant it to be.
She smiled—shy, but not unsure.
And God help him, if she stepped any closer, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep his promise to himself.
But then she did something simple. Innocent, really.
She reached for the throw blanket on the couch beside him. Brushed past his leg without meaning to.
And that brief, fleeting contact—her thigh against his knee, the warmth of her so close—
His jaw tensed.
Evelyn didn’t even notice what she’d done. She just pulled the blanket around her shoulders and sank into the chair across from him with a little sigh, curling into the fabric like she belonged there.
And Ronan? He didn’t move.
Not one inch.
Because if he did, if he gave even the smallest inch of ground…
He wouldn’t be able to stop.
She stayed for another few minutes, watching him, asking nothing.
And then—gratefully, mercifully—she stood again. Said a soft, “Goodnight,” and walked out.
He waited until she was gone before exhaling.
That’s when Jules appeared.
He didn’t even hear her coming.
She leaned in at his shoulder, her voice low and dead serious. “You did good.”
He glanced at her, frowning. “You spying now?”
“I’m protecting.”
“From me?” he asked, half a challenge.
“No,” she said. “From what she doesn’t know yet.”
Ronan narrowed his eyes, pulse still a slow burn.
Jules moved closer, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re dealing with a virgin, Ronan.”
He froze.
“What?”
“She told us. Last night. She’s never been with anyone. Not even kissed.”
Silence. Heavy.
Jules laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “So if you're falling, fall slow. Fall right. Because she’s not just learning how to trust—she’s learning how to feel.”
Ronan didn’t say anything.
He couldn’t.
Because in that moment, something inside him shifted hard—out of want and into something deeper.
Something dangerous.
Now he knew what he was holding back from.
And he’d never wanted to protect something—or someone—more in his life.
- Writer
