The puppies are curled together in a warm pile. Mama’s still nursing. All dogs are accounted for, quiet and dry. That should calm me, but it doesn’t.
Because she’s not here, and nothing about this night feels safe anymore.
I press a hand to the wall, steadying myself like the house might answer. I don’t realize I’ve stopped breathing until my ribs hurt. I picture her gone. Bags packed. Letter on the counter. I try to imagine what she’d say, but all I hear is the silence that’s swallowing this place whole.
My pulse thuds loud in my ears. Something glints softly from the kitchen counter, pulling my gaze.
I step closer, my heart catching as I see the apple blossom ring I gave her, abandoned there like a broken promise. It glistens under the pale kitchen lights, a silent accusation.
I snatch it up, gripping it tightly in my fist. My stomach twists painfully, but I slip it into my pocket and charge toward the back door, calling her name into the storm. “Annabelle!”
No answer.
My boots hit the porch hard. Cold air knives through my shirt, rain soaking my already soaked shoulders as I hit the steps and charge across the yard. The grass is slick. My pulse is louder than the thunder. Louder than the doubt clawing its way up my throat.
She’s gone.
She’s—
There.
Light spills from the RV like a beacon, soft and gold against the storm-dark night. And in the doorway, framed by the glow, she stands—barefoot, wrapped in her robe, her soaked hair clinging to her cheeks. Her hands are braced on either side of the door like she’s holding the world in place.
Like she’s holding herself together.
Her eyes find me across the yard.
And for one breathless second, we don’t move. Don’t speak. Just stare.
I don’t know what’s written on my face, but I know what I see on hers—fear, hope, heartbreak.
“Annabelle,” I whisper.
And I run.
I see him first through the rain-streaked window—soaked, standing on the back porch like he’s been out there for hours just trying to breathe. When I open the RV door, he looks up.
Then he’s running.
I step into the wet grass, feet bare, heart racing. He meets me halfway and takes my face in his hands like he’s terrified I’ll disappear again.
“I thought you were gone,” he breathes. “I thought you ran.”
He kisses me, rough and grounding. His mouth is a confession lit on fire. His hands are cold, his lips warmer. I grab the hem of his soaked flannel and hold on as the rain slicks down his skin, the storm muttering in the background, fading, but not gone.
He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze. “You left something inside.”
I catch my breath, heart thudding as he digs into his pocket. My pulse skitters as the pink diamond apple blossom ring catches the soft light from the RV.
Derek gently places my ring into my palm. I hesitate, throat tight. “Give it back when it’s real,” I whisper. “Once the annulment is official.”
“All right,” he says.
I lean into him, whispering against his chest, “I don’t want to run anymore. Not from you.”
He pulls me into one of those strong, all-encompassing hugs that smell like motor oil and home, burying his face in my neck.
“I’m sorry I left. I promised to take care of you. When I said those vows, I meant them. I should’ve stood beside you when it got hard, not driven off like a damn coward. I will never abandon you like that again. Not ever.”
