Page 77 of Wish You Were Mine
My heart thumped in my ears, and I risked a glance over my shoulder.
Hey, wait— Was he gone?
The street looked empty now, nothing but the dim orange glow of the lamplight.
But then, movement.
A shadow shifting behind the tree near the curb.
My stomach twisted and I knocked again, even harder.
Please, Owen. Please be home.
The door opened.
Owen stood there in sweatpants and a hoodie, his hair tousled like he’d just pulled himself off the couch. His expression went from startled to alarmed in half a second when he saw me.
“Lucy?” he asked, stepping forward. “What—what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Can I come in?” My voice came out rushed, breathless. “Someone was following me.”
“What?” His whole body went stiff. He glanced past metoward the street, scanning the sidewalk, his expression fierce. But from here, the shadows gave nothing away.
“Of course. Come in.” He stepped aside immediately, hand on the door to hold it open. I slipped past him, my body still shaking as I crossed the threshold.
“Can you lock it?” I blurted. And he did, twisting the deadbolt and then checking it again.
Only once it clicked into place did I finally let out the breath I’d been holding.
And then—without saying a word—he pulled me into his arms.
I hadn’t even realized I needed his embrace until I was folded against the steady warmth of Owen’s chest, his arms wrapping around me like a shield.
“It’s okay, Lucy,” he murmured, low and reassuring, his hand gliding gently over my hair. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
The words sank into me, dissolving some of the cold terror still locked in my bones. I didn’t even care that my cheeks were probably freezing against his chest. I just stood there, letting him hold me, letting the panic slowly ebb away.
After a minute—or maybe longer, I wasn’t sure—he pulled back just slightly, his hands coming to either side of my face, his brow furrowed as he scanned me like he was looking for bruises.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, voice gentle but urgent. “Did anything happen?”
That was when I felt the dull ache throbbing in my leg again.
“Just my shin,” I said, finally catching my breath. “I slipped on the stairs on the way up. Banged it pretty hard.”
“Let me see,” he said immediately. “We’ll check it out. Get you some ice.”
I nodded, and he was already on the move, heading toward the little industrial-style kitchen behind us.
I slipped off my coat and backpack and followed him, my legs still a little wobbly. He pulled open the freezer and grabbed a Ziploc bag, then filled it with ice and wrapped it in a kitchen towel.
“Hop up here,” he said, nodding toward the counter.
I did as I was told, pulling myself up and settling on the edge while he walked over with the makeshift ice pack.
“Which leg?” he asked, his gaze meeting mine.
“This one.” I reached down and touched my right shin.
