The berating continues!

She goes still. The air between them shifts, sharpens. Too close. Too real. She doesn’t talk about this. Doesn’t let people see it. But there’s something in the way he’s looking at her—not pity, not judgment, just… understanding. Like he’s been there. Like he gets it.

“What, no comeback?” he prods, but his voice is softer now.

Emma looks away, her fingers picking at a loose thread on her bag. “What’s there to say? People lie. They take what they want and leave you with jack shit.” She hears the bitterness in her own voice, the rawness, and hates it. Hates that he’s hearing it.

Jake is quiet for a long moment. Then, gruff: “Yeah. I know.”

Her head snaps up. He’s not looking at her anymore, his gaze fixed on some point in the distance, jaw tight. The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s shared. A truce. A breath.

Emma exhales, some of the fight draining out of her. “You’re not what I expected,” she admits.

“Disappointed?”

She almost smiles. “No. Just… surprised.”

He pushes off the beam, steps closer, and the hay bale creaks as he sits beside her, close enough that their thighs nearly touch. The heat of him seeps through her jeans. “You’re full of shit, you know that?”

Emma laughs, a real sound, low and rough. “And you’re an asshole.”

“Yeah.” He grins, slow and crooked. “But you’re still here.”

She is. And that’s the problem.

Their hands are resting between them, fingers almost brushing. Emma stares at them, at the callouses on his knuckles, the faint scars tracing his skin. A man who’s been through hell. Just like her. Just… different.

Before she can overthink it, she slides her hand toward his. Their pinkies graze. A test. A question.

Jake doesn’t pull away. Instead, his thumb hooks around hers, his touch rough but careful, like he’s handling something fragile. Emma’s breath catches. His skin is warm, his grip sure. She can feel the steady pulse in his wrist, the faint tremor in his fingers. He’s nervous too.

“This is stupid,” she whispers.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “It is.”

But neither of them lets go.

The barn is quiet around them, the world outside forgotten. Emma’s heart is a drumbeat, loud enough that she’s sure he can hear it. She turns her head, just slightly, and their faces are suddenly close. His breath is warm on her lips, smelling faintly of mint and coffee. His other hand lifts, hovering near her cheek, like he’s about to cup her face but isn’t sure he should.

Emma freezes.

No. The word screams in her head, a chorus of past voices, past hurts. Don’t trust him. Don’t let him in. Don’t—

Jake must see it in her eyes, the way her body locks up, the way her breath turns shallow. His hand drops. His thumb brushes over her knuckles, once, twice, grounding her.

“Take your time,” he murmurs, voice rough but gentle.

Emma swallows, her lips parted, her body caught between the urge to lean in and the terror of what happens if she does. The moment hangs between them, heavy with possibility, with fear. With something that feels dangerously like hope.

And for the first time in years, Emma doesn’t pull away.