Safe In His Hands

#4 ELIAS

ELIAS

Elias had known she would be there before he walked into The Timber Lounge.

Not consciously. He hadn't seen her car in the parking lot, hadn't heard anyone mention

her name in passing. But something in him had known anyway, the same way he'd

known she would be at the diner two nights ago. An instinct he didn't trust but couldn't

ignore—a prickling awareness at the base of his skull, a tightness in his chest that said

pay attention.

He'd told himself he was just stopping by for a drink. That it had nothing to do with the

possibility of seeing her again. That he wasn't hoping, wasn't looking, wasn't already

scanning the interior through the large front windows before he'd even opened the door.

But he was lying to himself, and he knew it.

The Timber Lounge was busy for a Thursday night—the usual crowd of locals unwinding

after work, the ambient noise of conversation and laughter creating a wall of sound that

hit him the moment he stepped inside. The air was thick with the smell of beer and

bourbon, fried food from the kitchen, and the faint sweetness of wood smoke from the

fireplace in the corner that Casey kept burning even when it wasn't strictly necessary.

She said it added atmosphere. Elias thought it was a fire hazard, but he'd stopped

arguing about it years ago.

The Edison bulbs strung along the exposed beams cast warm, golden light that made

everything look softer than it was. The bar itself—reclaimed barn wood that Elias had

helped Casey install eight years ago—gleamed under the glow of neon beer signs.

Budweiser. Coors. Miller. The same signs that had been there since Casey's father hadowned the place, back when it was called something else and catered to a rougher

crowd.

Elias let his gaze sweep the room with practiced casualness, cataloging faces and

positions the way he always did. Tom Henderson and his brother arguing about football

at their usual table near the pool tables. Sarah Mitchell and her friend laughing over

something on a phone at the bar. Old Mr. Peterson nursing what was probably his third

whiskey in the corner booth, his weathered face creased with lines that spoke of a hard

life lived outdoors.

And there, in the back booth, tucked into the shadows like she was trying to disappear—

Her.

Lila.

The impact of seeing her was physical. His chest tightened. His pulse kicked up. Every

nerve ending in his body seemed to light up at once, hyperaware, hypersensitive. It was

the same reaction he'd had at the diner, but stronger now. More insistent. Like his body

had recognized something his mind was still trying to deny.

She was alone, nursing a glass of wine that looked cheap even from across the room,

her attention fixed on her phone with an intensity that suggested she was using it as a

shield. Her shoulders were hunched inward, her body language screaming don't

approach me, don't see me, leave me alone. But underneath the defensive posture,

Elias could see the tension—the way her free hand gripped the edge of the table, the

way her jaw was clenched, the way she held herself so carefully, like she was made of

glass and one wrong move would shatter her.

She looked exhausted. Lost. Alone in a way that went deeper than just physical

isolation.

And every protective instinct Elias had spent four years trying to suppress roared to life.

Not your problem, he told himself firmly. She's a stranger. You don't know her. You don't

know what she needs.

But even as he thought it, he was moving toward the bar, his body making decisions his

mind hadn't approved. He slid onto a stool with practiced ease, nodding to a few familiar

faces, and waited for Casey to notice him.

She appeared within seconds, her platinum blonde ponytail swinging as she moved

down the bar with the efficiency of someone who'd been doing this for twenty years.

"Well, well. Twice in one week. Should I be worried about you?"

"Just thirsty." Elias kept his voice level, casual. "The usual."

Casey grabbed a rocks glass and poured two fingers of Maker's Mark without

measuring, her movements automatic. "Rough day?""Long day."

"Aren't they all." She set the glass in front of him, then leaned against the bar with her

elbows, studying him with eyes that were far too perceptive. "You know, I saw her

looking at you."

Elias took a drink, letting the whiskey burn down his throat. "I don't know what you're

talking about."

"Sure you don't." Casey's grin was wicked. "The new girl. Lila. She's been sitting in that

booth for the past hour, nursing the same glass of wine and pretending she's not

watching the door. And the second you walked in, her whole body went on alert. Like a

deer that just heard a twig snap."

"You're imagining things."

"Am I?" Casey tilted her head, her expression shifting from teasing to something more

serious. "Look, I've known you for fifteen years, Elias. I've seen you with women. Hell, I

watched you try to make it work with Rebecca for two years, and I've never—not once—

seen you look at anyone the way you just looked at her."

Elias's jaw tightened. "Casey—"

"I'm not trying to give you a hard time. I'm just saying... maybe this is different." She

straightened, wiping down the bar with a rag even though it didn't need it. "She seems

nice. Skittish as hell, but nice. And she looks like she could use a friend."

"She doesn't want a friend." The words came out harsher than he'd intended. "She

wants to be left alone."

"How do you know? You haven't talked to her."

"I know." And he did know. He'd seen the way she held herself, the way she avoided eye

contact, the way she'd practically fled from the diner the other night. Whatever she was

running from, she wasn't looking for someone to catch her.

Casey studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she sighed.

"You know what your problem is, Elias? You think caring about someone means you

have to fix them. And when you can't fix them, you think you've failed."

The observation hit too close to home, and Elias took another drink to avoid responding.

"Rebecca didn't leave because you cared too much," Casey continued, her voice gentler

now. "She left because she didn't want what you were offering. That's not the same

thing as you being too much. It just means you weren't right for each other."

"I know that." He did know that. Intellectually, he understood that Rebecca's inability to

accept his need for structure and control didn't mean there was something wrong with

him. But knowing it and believing it were two different things."Do you?" Casey raised an eyebrow. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like

you've spent the past four years punishing yourself for wanting something that's

perfectly normal. You want to take care of someone. You want to provide structure and

support. There's nothing wrong with that, Elias. You just need to find someone who

wants the same thing."

Before Elias could respond, Casey's attention was pulled away by another customer,

and he was left alone with his whiskey and his thoughts.

He didn't want to think about Rebecca. Didn't want to remember the way she'd looked at

him that last night—with something between pity and disgust—when she'd finally said

what they'd both been avoiding for months.

I can't do this anymore. I can't be what you need. And honestly, Elias, I don't think you

even know what you need. You say you want a partner, but what you really want is

someone to control. Someone to manage. Someone who'll let you make all the

decisions and never push back. And I'm not that person. I'll never be that person.

She'd been wrong about that last part. He didn't want someone who never pushed back.

He didn't want a doormat or a doll or someone without their own thoughts and opinions.

What he wanted was someone who understood that care and control could be the same

thing. Someone who found safety in structure rather than feeling trapped by it. Someone

who could surrender without losing themselves.

He'd thought Rebecca might be that person. Had spent two years trying to find the

balance between what he needed and what she could give. In the end, it hadn't been

enough. She'd left, and he'd promised himself he wouldn't make that mistake again.

Wouldn't let himself hope that someone might actually want what he had to offer.

Wouldn't let himself care.

And yet here he was, sitting in a bar, hyperaware of the woman in the back booth, every

cell in his body attuned to her presence like she was a magnetic north and he was a

compass that couldn't help but point in her direction.

He could feel her even without looking. Could sense the tension radiating from her in

waves. Could almost hear the anxious thoughts spiraling through her mind, the way she

was probably telling herself she should leave, should go home, should stop sitting here

alone like some kind of pathetic—

Elias cut off the thought. He was projecting. He didn't know what she was thinking.

Didn't know anything about her except that she was new in town, she was a

photographer, and she looked like she was barely holding herself together.

But he wanted to know. Wanted to cross the room, slide into that booth, and ask what

had put that haunted look in her eyes. Wanted to offer to carry whatever burden was

making her shoulders curve inward like that. Wanted to do something—anything—to

ease the fear he could see in every line of her body.Dangerous, he thought. This is dangerous.

Because he knew himself. Knew his patterns. Knew that once he started caring, once

he let himself get invested, it was almost impossible to pull back. And women like her—

women who were struggling, who needed someone steady—they didn't actually want

what he had to offer. Not once they understood what it meant. Not once they realized

that his need to care came with expectations and structure and a level of involvement

that most people found suffocating.

He should finish his drink and leave. Should go home to his quiet house and his

carefully controlled life and forget about the woman in the back booth who made him

want things he'd promised himself he wouldn't want anymore.

But even as he thought it, he found himself turning slightly on his stool, letting his gaze

drift in her direction.

And she was looking at him.

The impact was immediate and visceral. Her dark eyes met his across the crowded bar,

and for a moment—a long, suspended moment that felt like it lasted hours—the rest of

the world fell away. The noise, the people, the music—all of it faded into background

static, leaving just the two of them locked in this silent exchange.

Elias felt it in his chest, in his gut, in the sudden inability to breathe properly. His heart

rate kicked up. His hands tightened around his glass. Every nerve ending in his body

seemed to light up at once, hyperaware of her gaze on him, the weight of her attention

like a physical touch.

She looked terrified. Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated, her lips slightly parted like

she'd forgotten how to breathe. Color flooded her cheeks—a deep, telling flush that

spread down her neck and disappeared beneath the collar of her sweater. Her hands

trembled slightly around her wine glass.

But underneath the fear, there was something else. Something that made Elias's pulse

race and his control slip just a fraction. Recognition, maybe. Or curiosity. Or the same

inexplicable pull he was feeling—the sense that they knew each other somehow, even

though they'd never spoken.

She was responding to him. To his attention. To the intensity of his gaze. Her body

language had shifted subtly—shoulders straightening, chin lifting just slightly, like some

part of her was instinctively presenting herself for his assessment even as her

conscious mind was probably screaming at her to look away.

Elias held her gaze, letting the moment stretch, watching the play of emotions across

her face. Fear. Curiosity. Confusion. Want. She didn't know what to do with what she

was feeling, that much was obvious. Didn't know how to process the pull between them.

But she felt it. He could see it in her eyes, in the way her breathing had gone shallow

and quick, in the way she couldn't seem to look away even though every instinct wasprobably telling her to run.

She needs someone, that voice in his head whispered again. She needs structure.

Guidance. Someone to make her feel safe.

And God help him, he wanted to be that person.

But then she broke the connection, her gaze dropping back to her phone, and the spell

was broken. Elias turned back to the bar, his heart still racing, his hands not quite

steady as he lifted his glass.

"Told you," Casey said quietly, appearing at his elbow with a knowing smile. "She's been

watching you."

"She's leaving." Elias didn't look, but he could sense the movement behind him—the

rustle of fabric, the scrape of a booth seat, the quick footsteps heading toward the door.

"Are you going to do anything about it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because she doesn't want me to." Elias drained his whiskey, the burn doing nothing to

settle the restless energy thrumming through his veins. "She's scared, Casey. Whatever

she's running from, she's not looking for someone to complicate her life."

"Or maybe she's looking for exactly that and doesn't know it yet." Casey refilled his

glass without asking. "Sometimes people don't know what they need until someone

shows them."

Elias didn't respond. Couldn't respond. Because Casey was right, and that was the

problem. He could see what Lila needed—could see it in every tense line of her body,

every fearful glance, every moment of barely controlled panic. She needed someone to

take the weight off her shoulders. Someone to provide structure and safety and the kind

of care that went deeper than surface-level concern.

She needed what he had to offer.

But wanting to give it and having it accepted were two different things. And Elias had

learned, painfully, that offering care to someone who didn't want it—or didn't want it from

him—only led to heartbreak.

He stayed at the bar for another twenty minutes, nursing his second whiskey and half-

listening to Casey's commentary about the other patrons. But his mind was elsewhere.

On the woman who'd just fled into the night. On the fear in her eyes. On the way she'd

looked at him like he was both a threat and a lifeline.When he finally left, stepping out into the cool September air, he stood by his truck for a

long moment, keys in hand, debating. Her cottage was on Maple Street. Less than five

minutes from here. He could drive by, just to make sure she'd made it home safely. Just

to ease the worry that had settled in his chest like a stone.

That's stalking, he told himself firmly. That's crossing a line.

So he drove home instead, taking the long way through town, past darkened storefronts

and quiet residential streets. His house was waiting for him—clean, organized, exactly

as he'd left it. The porch light was on a timer, welcoming him home. Inside, everything

was in its place. His sanctuary. His carefully constructed world where he had control

over every variable.

But tonight, it felt empty.

Elias poured himself a glass of water and stood at the kitchen counter, staring out the

window at the dark forest beyond. His mind kept circling back to her. To the way she'd

looked at him. To the fear and want warring in her eyes. To the sense that she was

drowning and didn't know how to ask for help.

He thought about control. About the careful balance he'd built in his life over the past

four years. About the boundaries he'd established to protect himself from wanting things

he couldn't have. About the walls he'd constructed, brick by brick, to keep himself from

getting hurt again.

One woman. One look. And all of it felt suddenly fragile.

You don't even know her, he reminded himself. You don't know if she needs what you

have to offer. You don't know if she'd want it even if she did need it.

But he would find out. Pine Ridge was too small for secrets. He'd see her again—at the

grocery store, at the diner, around town. And when he did, he'd pay attention. Watch.

Learn what she needed.

And then he'd decide what to do.

For now, he'd wait. Keep his distance. Give her space to settle in, to find her footing, to

decide whether she was staying or just passing through.

It was what he was good at, after all. Control. Patience. Restraint.

Even when every instinct in him wanted to do the opposite. Even when his hands itched

to reach out, to steady, to care. Even when his mind was already cataloging all the ways

she needed someone to look after her—the exhaustion in her eyes, the tension in her

shoulders, the way she'd looked so utterly, completely alone.

Elias went to bed that night with the image of her burned into his mind. Those dark eyes.

That fear. The way she'd looked at him like she was afraid and curious in equal

measure.He lay in the dark, listening to the familiar sounds of his house settling, and tried to

convince himself that this pull he felt would fade. That it was just attraction, just curiosity,

just the novelty of someone new in a town where everyone was familiar.

But he knew it was a lie.

Because something in him had already decided that she was his problem. Or would be,

eventually.

He just had to figure out what to do about it.

And whether he had the courage to risk his heart again, knowing it might end the same

way it had with Rebecca—with him offering everything he had and having it rejected as

too much, too controlling, too intense.

Wait, he told himself firmly. Just wait.

But waiting had never felt harder than it did right now, with the memory of her eyes

meeting his still echoing through his chest like a bell that wouldn't stop ringing.