Did I truly have her? Here in the dark, it all feels like a strange dream. Maybe I imagined the whole thing. Maybe I’m still trapped in that wreckage of a car.

“Hell,” I say, disgusted at my own drama. I’ve been reading too many scripts. Rolling onto my side, I try to get comfortable. The sooner I sleep, the sooner I can wake up and see her.

The sound of the front door opening has me sitting up so fast my head spins. The house is too damn big to hear anything. It could be Delilah. Then again, it might not be. I ease out of bed, grab my discarded cane as a weapon, and move toward the bedroom door.

I hear the familiar sound of her footsteps a second before she enters the room. She sees me just as I’m lowering the cane, and she screeches.

“Jesus,” she shouts, holding her chest. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Heart pounding with released adrenaline, I slump against the wall. “I’m not the one creeping into bedrooms at two in the morning.”

Her shadowed face is a picture of indignant outrage. “I’m not creeping; I live here!”

Those words crack the tension that’s held my body prisoner for the past few hours.

“You’re back,” I say. Don’t leave me again. Don’t leave.

Delilah relaxes too. She’s barefoot and still wearing the jeans and pink T-shirt she left in. It’s too dark to see her properly, but she seems . . . not happy but calm.

“I’m back.” There’s hesitation in her tone as though she’s unsure if she should be here. The fact that she doesn’t know is a tragedy. “Is that okay?”

“Okay?” I blow out a breath. “We were in a fight, Delilah. It’s going to happen now and then.”

A slow smile blooms. “Probably a lot.”

I smile too. It feels fragile but good. “Hopefully not too much.”

Her teeth snag on her lower lip, and she bites down, eyeing me from under her thick lashes. “But then we can make up?”

God, I want to make up. And then make up some more. Spend the entire week making up.

“Come to bed?” I’m this close to begging.

Delilah walks to the bed, slipping into a band of moonlight that slants through the bank of bedroom windows. But she sits instead of crawling under the covers. “I should have waited until morning and let you sleep.”

Fat chance of that.

“But I wanted to talk to you,” she goes on.

I don’t like the way she’s holding herself so stiffly. My guard comes up, and the tension in my neck returns. I sit beside her on the bed. “Delilah, you can say anything to me.”

Her teeth snag her lower lip. “I talked things out with Sam.”