Emma
The heavy iron door of the church room remained sealed, but the silence inside was deafening.
My hands rested flat against Jake’s leather cut, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart through the thick hide. The scent of motor oil, rain, and cedar clung to him—a grounded reality that anchored me when the adrenaline in my veins threatened to crash.
My stomach gave a dull, familiar flutter. I shifted slightly, exhaling as I adjusted my stance to ease the ache in my lower back.
Jake felt the movement instantly. His large hands slid from my waist to my shoulders, his dark eyes searching my face with intense, unbroken focus.
"You're swaying, Emma," he said, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly timbre reserved only for me. "Sit down."
"I'm not made of glass, Jake," I murmure
