The rain’s let up a bit. I grab a cigarette and step outside onto the balcony, making sure to shut the door firmly behind me. Don’t want any second hand smoke getting into the house with Julia inside.

Outside, the air is chilly but humid. Charleston in late autumn and winter.

I light the cigarette and take a big inhale. I wait for the usual release that comes—the fleeting lightness—as I slowly exhale, tilting my head up to the sky.

But it doesn’t come.

Furrowing my brow, I take another drag.

The realization hits me on the third inhale.

The lightness doesn’t come because it’s already there.

In my head and my chest. My limbs. My mood.

I don’t need nicotine to make me feel better because I already do.

I already feel warm and fuzzy. Julia is upstairs. Charlie Brown, too. Both of them safe and warm under my roof. I fed Julia, I made her laugh. I lit her up and drew her out. Drew parts of myself out in the process.

Is this what happy feels like? It’s been so long.

But these butterflies—they just won’t quit.

Part of me wants to smoke the rest of this cigarette. No question I’m 100% addicted, and my body craves the nicotine. But another part—a part I don’t recognize—wants to see if I have the willpower to put it out. Right now.

Exactly how deep am I in here?

How much power do I really have to choose what happens next?

Julia’s making me want something other than hurt.

But do I really believe I can heal? Do I really think I deserve to?

Just because you’re a villain in one story doesn’t mean you can’t be a hero in another.

I take one last drag. Sneak another. My hand shakes as I stub it out.

But I do it. I put the fucking thing out.

I duck back inside before I change my mind.

Julia

I wake up in a bed that’s not mine.

The sheets are silky cool. Cotton percale, Egyptian if I had to guess.

And the pillow smells like bergamot.

It smells like Greyson.

A rush of heat floods my core. I blink open my eyes and suck in a breath. I’m swimming in the middle of an enormous bed, the covers tucked tightly around me.

I’m a burrito. In Greyson Montgomery’s bed.

Last night comes back to me in a rush. The sonogram, The Sopranos, Greyson’s grandmother’s chicken and rice and a half shot of Pinot.

My God, that chicken. And that rice.

And the way he looked in those tight joggers and tighter henley.

I remember him carrying me up the stairs, Callum-the-angry-Scot style. The way he held me was so careful. Grip firm but touch gentle.

He made me feel safe.

Never in a million years would I have thought I’d feel safe with this man. Egomaniac boss. Instigator of fights. Slayer of vaginas.

But here I am. Tucked sweetly into his clean, cavernous bed. Still full from the amazing meal he made from scratch to celebrate Charlie Brown’s first ultrasound.