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Chelsea sits alone in her room, the dim glow of the bedside lamp casting soft shadows on the walls. The books Saxon took are gone, but their absence feels louder than their presence ever had. She has spent the past hour trying to distract herself—scrolling on her phone, checking messages, debating whether to call Rick again. But deep down, she already knows he won’t answer. She isn’t even sure she wants him to anymore.
She spends the entire night trying to push aside the nagging thoughts in her mind. Thoughts of Saxon. It makes no sense. She knows Rick is her soulmate, the one who needs her, who makes her feel whole. But every time she replays the moment from earlier—Saxon’s fingertips barely brushing against her palms—something twists inside her. A sharp, unfamiliar awareness.
It’s different from the lack of control she feels with Rick. Rick needs her but refuses to admit it. She offers herself to him completely, but he builds walls to keep her out, never fully letting her in. Rick leaves her behind at every turn—both physically and emotionally. But lately... there's Saxon. Saxon is almost begging her to fix him. "Teach me your ways," she recalls. He is lost but honest about it. He's searching but open to discovery.
She groans and falls back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
“This is ridiculous,” she mutters to herself.
And yet, when she closes her eyes, it isn’t Rick’s voice she hears. It isn’t his touch she feels. It’s Saxon’s. His hesitant words, the quiet way he had looked at her, as if waiting for permission to exist in her world.
The next morning, she wakes up alarmingly early and soon finds herself wandering around the resort grounds. She isn’t even sure why—maybe just waiting for Rick to come back safe—but then she sees him.
Saxon sits alone by the pool, the books she gave him stacked beside him. He isn’t reading them, though. He’s just staring at the water, lost in thought.
Chelsea hesitates.
The logical choice would be to turn around, to walk away and pretend nothing had changed. Pretending she hadn’t felt the way her heart had stuttered when his hands touched hers. She tells herself it was nothing, just a fleeting moment, a trick of the mind. But now, standing there watching him, she feels a pull, a need to go over there and hear his stupid deep voice again.
“You’re overdoing it,” she says softly, approaching him.
Saxon startles slightly. He looks at her… uncertain. Almost nervous. He has been like that around her lately. He still never quite knows where he stands with her, and that makes two of them now.
“I knew meditation was a scam,” he mutters.
Chelsea rolls her eyes, sitting down next to him. “It’s not a scam. You’re just rubbish at it.”
Saxon glances at the books beside him, then back at her. “Still not sure if I should actually read these or just keep using them as coasters.”
Chelsea lets out a quiet laugh, more at his nervousness than the joke itself. He’s trying not to annoy her. It’s weirdly disarming.
“Still not sure you know how to read,” she quips, a proud smile tugging at her lips. She doesn’t look directly at him.
“Ha ha,” he says flatly, but the smirk doesn't quite reach his eyes. He looks at her, really looks at her, and she feels the weight of it settle over her skin.
After a moment, he speaks again, his voice quieter. “You ever think about what comes next?”
Chelsea frowns, a bit thrown by the question. “What do you mean?”
Saxon leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “I mean… if you wanted to, you could just decide to be someone else. Start fresh. No one’s stopping you.”
Chelsea hesitates, something about his words tugging at her. “You’re still on that?” she asks, a half-hearted attempt to sound amused. “You don’t really think you could be anyone, do you?”
He holds her gaze. “Maybe I meant it.”
Chelsea takes in a slow, careful breath. She should mock him, roll her eyes, say something sharp to reestablish the balance between them. But she doesn’t. And that unnerves her.
Her fingers hover over one of the books for a second too long before she hands it to him.
“Start with this one,” she says. “It won’t change your life overnight, but… it’s a start.”
Saxon takes the book from her, but instead of glancing at it, he keeps his eyes on her, studying her in a way that makes her stomach tighten.
Finally, he gives a small, slow smile, something real beneath the usual bravado. “Guess we’ll see if I’ve got a soul after all.”
Chelsea should laugh. Should scoff. Instead, she just holds his gaze a second longer than she should, then looks away.
She doesn’t want to admit that, for the first time, she isn’t so sure he doesn’t.
“I should go,” she murmurs, standing abruptly.
Saxon doesn’t say anything to stop her. He just watches as she leaves. As she walks away, her heart pounds, and she can’t brush away the feeling of uncertainty taking over her.
Chelsea walks alone along the shoreline, the soft rush of the waves matching the rhythm of her thoughts. The morning air thick with humidity, the scent of salt and damp sand clinging to her skin. She barely notices it. Her mind was elsewhere—on the night before, on the way Saxon had looked at her like he was seeing something she wasn’t even sure she had, on the feeling in the depth of her stomach when his skin touched hers.
She shook her head, trying to push it away. It was stupid. Meaningless. Whatever had passed between them, it didn’t matter. Saxon was Saxon. And she had Rick. Rick, who had left in the dead of night chasing ghosts she couldn’t understand.
Chelsea sighed, digging her toes into the wet sand. The resort stretched behind her, but she kept moving forward, needing the space, the silence. The sun was rising higher, the golden light spilling over the water, when a figure appeared in the distance. At first, she thought it was just another tourist, someone out for a swim. But then she saw the way he moved, the familiar shape of him, the slight unevenness in his stride.
Rick.
Her breath caught. She didn’t think—she just ran. The moment she reached him, she threw her arms around his neck, relief bursting in her chest. He was here. He was safe.
Rick wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly, and she felt him exhale against her shoulder. “I’m okay,” he murmured, as if he could feel the frantic beat of her heart.
She pulled back just enough to look at him, searching his face. He looked... different. Lighter. As if a weight had been lifted off of him. His eyes, usually clouded with anger or obsession, were strangely bright. Happy. It should have reassured her. But instead, something inside her wavered.
“What happened?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Rick smiled, brushing a hand over her cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of her jaw like he was seeing her for the first time. “I let it go.”
Chelsea blinked, caught off guard. That was it? Just like that? The man who had spent years tangled in his own resentment, who had crossed an ocean chasing closure, had simply decided to move on? It didn’t make sense.
But she forced herself to nod, to smile back. “I’m glad,” she said, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, willing herself to believe it.
For a while during that day, she clung to the relief of having him back, ignoring the small, nagging voice inside her that told her something had shifted. That Rick, in some strange way, no longer needed her the way he used to. And if he didn’t need her, then who was she supposed to be?
Later in the afternoon, they were back in their room, watching the sky turn a dusky pink—she nursing a glass of wine, him a glass of whiskey. Rick had just told her how everything went down in Bangkok. How Jim Hollinger turned out to be just a frail old man, how he didn’t need to hurt or kill him to get closure. There was relief in his voice, as if letting go had freed him in a way he hadn’t expected.
They sat in silence until a staff member from the resort approached their room. “Mr. Hatchett?” the man asked, his voice polite but urgent. “There’s someone asking for you. Would you accompany me, please?”
Chelsea stiffened beside him, fingers tightening around her glass. Rick barely hesitated before setting his drink down and standing.
She grabbed his wrist before he could leave. “Don’t do something stupid.”
Rick looked down at her hand, then back at her. A small, reassuring smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll be okay.”
A lot had happened while he was away. Chelsea had been in their room, aimlessly scrolling through her phone when the first gunshot rang out. Then another. And another. She froze, heart hammering as panicked screams echoed from outside. She rushed away from the windows, unable to bring herself to look, afraid of what she might see. The chaos outside seemed to stretch on forever—screaming, running... but she stayed put, gripping her phone with white-knuckled fingers. She called Rick—once, twice, ten times—but as always, he didn’t pick up.
Instead, after what felt like an eternity, a single text came through: I’m fine.
Her breath shuddered out, but the relief was brief. Fine didn’t mean safe. It didn’t mean unharmed. It didn’t mean he wasn’t lying to keep her from panicking. She stayed in their room, pacing, waiting, imagining a hundred terrible outcomes until finally, much later that night, Rick walked in.
He didn’t look wounded. He didn’t look shaken. He looked... certain. And that certainty made her stomach twist before he even spoke.
“I’m staying,” he announced. “Here. In Thailand.”
Chelsea stared at him, waiting for the punchline. But it didn’t come. He was serious.
“You’re what?” she asked, her voice flat, disbelieving.
“I talked to Jim.” His tone was almost triumphant, like he had solved some impossible puzzle. “He... he didn’t murder my father.” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “He is my father.”
Chelsea blinked, feeling like the ground beneath her had shifted. “He’s WHAT?!”
“He offered me a job. A life here to make up for the lost time. And I said yes.”
Chelsea’s mouth went dry. “Wait, what?!” She couldn’t quite process it all at once. “You decided this without talking to me?”
Rick frowned, as if the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “I figured you’d understand.”
Understand? That he had made a decision that changed everything without even considering what she wanted? That he had chosen a life, a future, all without giving her a second thought?
She swallowed, a bitter laugh bubbling up before she could stop it. “Of course you did.”
Rick’s expression shifted, frustration flickering in his eyes. “Chelsea—”
“No.” She cut him off, shaking her head. “You’re doing it again. Making choices like I don’t even exist in your life. I don’t get a say, I never get a say.”
He stepped closer, searching her face. “I thought you’d be happy for me.” He grabbed her face with both hands, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I found the father I never had! I can’t leave now.” His grip softened. “And you can stay too. We can have a life here...” He gestured around the room, as if it was that simple.
She let out a hollow breath. “You didn’t even ask if I want that.” She pulled away from him and stepped back.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. And Chelsea realized, with a slow, aching certainty, that this was it. That whatever they had built, whatever she had convinced herself was unbreakable, was already gone.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t argue. She just looked at him—really looked at him—and saw a man who no longer needed saving. And for the first time, she wasn’t sure if that made her happy or if it just left her feeling empty.
“I’m going home tomorrow,” she said quietly, turning away before she could change her mind. “With or without you.”
Rick didn’t fight it. He didn’t try to convince her. He just nodded, his jaw tightening, as if accepting something he hadn’t been ready to face.
“I can’t leave now,” he said, his voice softer this time.
Chelsea exhaled, then reached up, placing a hand on his cheek. He leaned into it, pressing a kiss to her palm. For a moment, she let herself memorize the warmth of him, the familiarity.
“I hope you get what you always wanted,” she whispered.
And then she let her hand fall away, stepping back before she could change her mind.
It's the next morning. Chelsea stood at the front desk, sliding her passport across the counter. The lobby was quiet, just a handful of departing guests like herself—some of the same people from that first boat ride, funnily enough. Or maybe one of those ladies was missing. She wasn’t sure. Rick was certainly missing.
She was checking out alone, even though Rick had already paid for everything. It didn’t matter. She needed to close this chapter on her own terms.
The act of checking out felt heavier than it should. It wasn’t just about leaving the hotel—it was about leaving behind everything that had unraveled over the past few days. Rick hadn’t come to see her off, and the fact that she barely felt the sting of it said everything. Maybe that was the real sign it was over.
This place—this hotel they had only yesterday learned belonged to Rick’s father—was no longer somewhere she wanted to linger. Whatever had tied her to it, to him, had loosened. And she was ready to walk away.
The clerk smiled politely as she processed the checkout, but Chelsea barely registered it. Her attention had shifted across the lobby, drawn to a scene unfolding near the entrance. Saxon and his family stood together, their luggage at their feet. They looked... different. Not just exhausted, but frayed, pulled apart at the seams.
Piper and Lochlan stood close together, a united front. Their gazes were distant, their postures tense. It was clear they were relying on each other now, separate from the rest. Timothy stood with Victoria, but there was nothing warm about it—just stiff, detached formality. A family only in name.
And Saxon stood slightly apart from them all, his hands stuffed into his pockets, his expression unreadable. The weight of something unspoken hung between them. A break. A fracture. Whatever had once tethered them together was gone now.
Chelsea had no idea what had happened after yesterday’s chaos, but they were all here—safe, yet changed. The perfect, curated image of the Ratliff family had shattered. And maybe, just maybe, Saxon was okay with that.
She should look away. It wasn’t her place to watch. But before she could, Saxon’s eyes flicked up and found hers across the room.
For a moment, neither of them moved. A second, maybe two. But something passed between them. Something quiet and uncertain, full of things unsaid. He didn’t smirk. She didn’t roll her eyes. Just a lingering glance, heavy with meaning neither of them had the words for.
Then, just as quickly, it was gone. Saxon turned back toward his siblings, and Chelsea exhaled, realizing she had been holding her breath.
The clerk handed her back her passport along with a receipt, snapping her back to reality. Chelsea took it with a nod and picked up her bag.
She didn’t look back as she stepped outside into the waiting sun.
She is already sitting in the shuttle, airport-bound, when she feels someone slide into the seat beside her.
Before she even glances over, she catches the familiar scent of him—faintly woodsy, with a trace of the ocean still clinging on. Saxon.
For a second, she isn’t sure what to do with that. She looks over, but he doesn’t meet her gaze, just leans back into his seat, resting an arm casually on the top of the seat in front. His posture is relaxed, but there’s something forced about it, like he’s holding something in.
The shuttle doors shut with a soft hiss, and the engine rumbles to life. The last stretch of their time in Thailand has begun.
She turns her gaze forward, watching the road ahead, but she can feel him there, the weight of his presence pressing against the quiet between them. It feels as though they are both waiting for something—a cue, a reason to speak.
She doesn’t know what makes her say it, but the words slip out before she can stop them.
"Not with your family?"
Saxon lets out a short, dry laugh, shaking his head. "Nah."
That’s it. No explanation. No need.
Her eyes land on his face, but before she can study him, he turns, glancing back at her. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—a question, an uncertainty. She can’t read it, but she feels it. It lingers between them, heavy in the air.
She wants to say something, but the words tangle in her throat. Instead, she just keeps her eyes on him for a moment longer than necessary. He doesn’t look away, and neither does she.
The silence stretches, but it isn’t uncomfortable. It’s a strange sort of tension, one that neither of them knows how to break.
"You okay?" she asks, and the words feel more vulnerable than she intends. It’s too late to take them back.
Saxon exhales, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Yeah."
His gaze softens, but there’s still something guarded in it, something that makes Chelsea wonder if there’s more he isn’t saying. But she doesn’t press him. Instead, she turns her attention to the view outside the window—flickers of palm trees and the blur of the road.
She thinks of Rick. Should she be worried about him? But instead, there’s this pull to Saxon—a curiosity about where he’s at, what he’s thinking. She hadn’t even realized until now how little she really knows about him.
"You've been distant from them today," Chelsea says, her voice quieter this time. "Your family."
Saxon shifts slightly, the silence stretching again. He doesn’t answer immediately, but Chelsea can tell the question has landed somewhere deeper than she expected. He looks past her, out the window, his thoughts seeming far away for an instant, somewhere beyond the horizon.
"They don’t really get me," he says after a pause, his voice rough. "Not the way you do."
She feels a strange warmth at that, an unexpected flutter. It isn’t a compliment—at least, not in the way she’s used to hearing compliments. It’s just... an acknowledgment. It feels like any lasting walls between them have weakened just a little more.
"Old man’s not with you?" Saxon’s voice is tentative now, careful not to push too hard. He’s looking at her, but his gaze isn’t as direct as it was earlier.
Chelsea shifts uncomfortably in her seat, her fingers fidgeting with the strap of her handbag. She doesn’t really want to get into it. Not here. Not now. But before she can brush it off, Saxon’s tone softens.
"I have your books," he says, his voice laced with the faintest hint of something gentle, something that lets her know he understands without needing to ask any more. "They’re in my bag."
The conversation shifts, the tension between them lightening just a bit. Chelsea’s breath hitches slightly at the mention of the books, a small, unexpected warmth filling her chest. She smiles—a small gesture, but it feels like a quiet connection.
"It’s fine," she replies softly.
They both go quiet again for a few moments, the shuttle lurching forward over the uneven roads, carrying them toward the airport. Saxon’s eyes flick to her once more, and his gaze is steady now.
"You okay?" he asks, this time more direct, his voice soft but certain.
Chelsea doesn’t know how to answer. She wants to say she’s fine, that everything is going to be okay. But the truth feels too tangled up in everything else. She turns to look out the window again, trying to gather her thoughts.
"I don’t know," she whispers. "I’ll figure it out."
For a moment, they don’t speak. The shuttle hums along, a steady rhythm that mirrors the quiet pulse between them.
And for just a little while longer, they sit there together in that silence, with all the unspoken things between them swirling in the air, heavy and unresolved.
The shuttle hisses to a stop outside the small airport terminal, and the driver gives a quick announcement in Thai before opening the doors. The thick, humid air sweeps in as passengers grab their bags and shuffle toward the exit.
Chelsea shifts in her seat, reaching for the strap of her carry-on, but Saxon is already ahead of her. He stands, grabbing her bag without a word, his grip firm but unassuming.
She hesitates for half a second but doesn’t protest.
"Thank you," she murmurs as they step onto the hot pavement.
He only gives a small nod, leading the way through the glass doors of the terminal. The airport is small and bare-bones, the kind of place built for transitions, not destinations. Rows of metal chairs with thin cushions line the waiting area, and the air smells of coffee, sweat, and too many hours spent between flights.
Saxon’s family is already inside, gathered near the check-in counters. His father stands stiffly, his mother close beside him. His siblings linger just behind, Piper with her arms crossed, Lochlan scrolling aimlessly through his phone—both of them quiet, as if already bracing for what’s coming.
Saxon hands Chelsea her bag and walks toward them. She isn’t trying to eavesdrop, but as she pulls out her ticket and passport to check in her own luggage, the sharp edge of Timothy Ratliff’s voice cuts through the low hum of the terminal.
"You don’t get to just walk away from this, Saxon," his father snaps.
Saxon, holding his own bag over one shoulder, doesn’t react right away. He shifts his weight slightly, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off an itch.
"Walk away from what, Dad?" he says, voice steady but laced with subdued anger. "You already destroyed everything."
His mother, Victoria, exhales sharply, her patience already fraying. "This is family, Saxon. You don’t turn your back on that. Even Piper is coming home with us."
Saxon lets out a short, humorless laugh. "Family? Come on. You’d be the first one to sell one of us if it stopped us from going poor." He gestures angrily at them—his parents, his siblings.
Chelsea glances up at that, her fingers pausing on the zipper of her carry-on.
Victoria’s jaw tightens. "We will figure things out."
"Figure what out?" Saxon repeats, incredulous. "Dad is going to jail. We are broke. Our name is worth less than shit. What else is there to figure out?"
His father’s face darkens, and his voice drops lower, harsher. "You are coming back with us."
Saxon shakes his head. "I don’t even know where I’m going, but I know it’s not back there. I’m nothing there, thanks to you." He points at his father, sarcastic. "So fuck it, I can be nothing anywhere I want."
Timothy and Victoria look lost and shocked and angry. At Saxon, but also at each other, and at themselves. His siblings—for what seems like the first time ever—don’t get involved.
Silence falls, stretching between them, thick with unspoken things. Timothy’s glare is unwavering, his presence not nearly as forceful as before. And it doesn’t seem to shake Saxon, not anymore. Piper and Lochlan exchange a glance, but neither of them speaks. If anyone had asked, out of the three of them, who would be the most loyal to their parents, the answer would have always been Saxon. Maybe that’s why he’s the one most hurt now.
After a long pause, his father turns away abruptly, shoving his passport onto the counter. His mother inhales deeply, pressing her lips together before following. Piper and Lochlan hesitate for a beat, then step up to check in their own bags.
Saxon, however, doesn’t move.
Chelsea has already checked in and watches from a little distance, sitting in one of the metal chairs. Saxon is still standing there, jaw set, eyes distant, like he’s already untethered from them.
Then, as if realizing the conversation is truly over, he turns on his heel and walks away.
Chelsea quickly lowers her gaze, pretending to focus on the airline app on her phone. She isn’t sure if she should say something when he inevitably makes his way over to where she’s sitting, but before she can decide, he’s already there, dropping into the seat beside her with an exhale.
For a moment, neither of them speaks.
Chelsea glances at him, noting the way his fingers drum absently against the armrest, the way his mouth presses into a firm line.
"Not checking in your bags?" she asks finally.
He exhales, tipping his head back against the chair. "No point."
She doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask What now? or Where are you going? because she isn’t sure he even has an answer.
Saxon runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "Guess you and everyone else heard that."
Chelsea just nods.
He shakes his head. "Yeah, well. It’s done. I'm not going back."
A beat of quiet settles between them. She doesn’t ask for an explanation, but he offers one anyway. "So, my genius of a dad got caught up in fraud. He’s going to jail, my family is going broke, and I don’t have a career anymore..." His fingers curl into a fist against his knee before releasing. "I have nothing. So, no point. I am nothing."
Chelsea studies him for a moment before speaking, quiet but firm. "If you’re nothing, then you can be whoever you want now." She recalls his own words from a few nights ago.
Saxon lets out a breath of laughter, but there’s no humor in it. He looks at her, really looks, like he’s trying to gauge if she actually believes what she’s saying.
"And what if I don’t even know who I want to be?" he murmurs.
Chelsea leans back slightly, tilting her head. "Then you get to figure it out. No expectations, no weight of family, no one telling you who you’re supposed to be."
He scoffs, shaking his head. "You make it sound easy."
She shrugs. "I never said it was easy. But it’s freeing. Maybe you’ll even find a soul along the way."
Saxon watches her, the air between them thick with something unspoken. There’s a pull here—something magnetic, something that wasn’t there before, or maybe was always there, just buried under everything else.
"You ever feel like that?" he asks suddenly. "Like you don’t know who you are?"
Chelsea exhales softly, considering. "I think... we all feel that way sometimes..." She pauses, gaze flicking to the boarding screens. "Right now... I don’t know."
Saxon watches her carefully. "Maybe we’re both a little lost then."
A small, wry smile tugs at the corner of Chelsea’s lips. "Nobody’s as lost as you right now." She teases, tapping his shoulder.
"Right." He leans back, arms stretching across the empty seat beside him. "What about you? Where’s home after this?"
Chelsea hesitates, then shakes her head. "London for now, I guess. Haven’t been back for a while because of,—"
"Balding old man." he says, as if finishing her sentence seamlessly. She rolls her eyes.
Saxon hums, watching her, then nods. "London," he repeats, as if tasting the word. "Could be worse."
She smirks. "Could be North Carolina."
He laughs at that, a real laugh this time, and something between them eases just a little. The weight of everything isn’t gone, but it feels lighter—like maybe neither of them has to carry it alone.
"That night, at your room..." he starts, his voice quieter now. He glances at her, gauging her reaction.
Chelsea turns her head, pulse quickening slightly. She knows exactly what he’s referring to. She can feel the memory of it—of her teaching him to meditate, of her skin warming under his touch.
"I’m not sure what you’re talking about," she teases, a smirk playing on her lips, though there’s a flicker of warmth in her chest.
His eyes narrow, that familiar glint of mischief in them. "Oh, come on. You can’t tell me you didn’t notice... you got flustered when I touched your hands."
Her breath catches for a moment, but she plays it off, shaking her head. "I wasn’t flustered," she says, though her voice is a little softer than she intended. "It was... just unexpected."
Saxon grins, leaning forward slightly. "Unexpected, huh? Nah, I think you were a little flustered."
Chelsea feels her cheeks warm but presses on. "I wasn’t." She avoids his gaze, looking down at her hands instead.
He watches her for a moment, his smile softening. "Okay, maybe not. But you were different after that. Not your usual dragging me self." He leans back, a thoughtful expression on his face. "You sure you didn’t feel anything?"
Chelsea glances up at him, her heart beating a little faster. She doesn’t know where this is going, but it feels... different. The air around them is thick now, charged with something unspoken.
She shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "Maybe I was just caught off guard."
Saxon holds her gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then shrugs as well. "Could be." His voice is lower now, a little rougher.
The words linger between them, quiet but heavy. Something is shifting, building—neither of them willing to say it out loud first.
Chelsea clears her throat, gaze flicking away. “That night, when you touched my hands,” she hesitates, fingers tightening around the edge of her seat. “It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.”
The words sound almost convincing—like if she says them just right, she might believe them herself. But deep down, something unsettles in her chest, a quiet pull she’s not ready to name. She exhales softly, forcing a small shrug. “It was just... an odd moment.”
Saxon watches her, his expression unreadable at first. Then, slowly, a small smile tugs at his lips—not quite teasing, not quite serious. “Yeah...” His voice is lighter, but there’s weight beneath it, something unspoken pressing at the edges.
He holds her gaze a beat longer. “But what if that moment was the start of something?”
She feels the words stir in her chest, unsettling warmth spreading through her. She takes a breath, holding his gaze, and doesn’t look away this time.
"You think?" she asks, voice barely above a whisper.
Saxon just shrugs, his smile widening. "I don’t know. Maybe I need a few more lessons, so it doesn’t feel as... unexpected."
Chelsea exhales, shaking her head with an amused sigh. "I was trying to teach you something serious, okay? And you were just being so—"
"Distracting?" he offers, grinning now.
She narrows her eyes at him, but there’s no real bite to it. "You were being you ."
His smirk fades slightly, his expression turning thoughtful. "So what was it then? That made you flustered?"
Chelsea hesitates, then exhales. "You were... paying attention."
His brows pull together slightly. "Oh."
She gives a small shrug. "I guess I wasn’t used to that."
Saxon watches her, his teasing edge replaced by something quieter, more contemplative. "Maybe you should be."
Chelsea swallows, looking away for a second before meeting his eyes again. "Maybe."
Again silence settles between them—not uncomfortable, but charged.
Chelsea exhales, fingers tracing absent patterns on her phone screen. Why is she being pulled to him so strongly? She should want to keep a safe distance. She should remind herself of who he was just a week ago—arrogant, insufferable, someone she barely tolerated. She had spent so much time resisting him, keeping him at arm’s length, certain he was nothing more than a nuisance.
But somehow, that certainty is slipping.
This Saxon—this lost, untethered version—doesn’t fit neatly into the box she once put him in. And maybe that’s what unsettles her most. Because if he’s not who she thought he was, then maybe she isn’t either.
The thought tugs at something deep and unsteady in her, something reckless.
"I have a spare ticket, you know..." The words leave her mouth before she can think better of them, surprising even herself.
He blinks. “Huh?”
She turns her phone toward him, showing an e-ticket confirmation. “I have an extra ticket to London.”
He stares at it, then at her, unsure if she's serious or not for a moment.
Chelsea lifts a shoulder in a small shrug. “It was Rick’s. But he’s staying.”
Saxon’s lips twitch, like he’s trying—and failing—to keep his expression neutral. “So... you want me to go to London with you?”
She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Do you want the ticket or not?!”
His grin breaks through then, wide and easy. “Well, yeah. I’ll go to London with you.”
Chelsea exhales, shaking her head like she already regrets this. Maybe she does. Or maybe the flicker of anticipation in her chest means something else entirely.
“Can’t have you running off with my books, now can I?”