I see the way his jaw locks when laughter from the street filters through the window, too loud, too sudden.
I see how he never sits with his back to the door.
I brush past him, fingers skimming his shoulder like I’m reminding myself he’s real. He doesn’t flinch. Not anymore. But his eyes flick up to mine, pale and haunted, like he’s been waiting for something to explode in the middle of the kitchen.
“You okay?” I whisper.
His smirk is slow, tired, jagged. “Depends. You planning on dragging me into another chapel?”
The joke should sting—it does sting—but it also makes me want to kiss him until we forget. I roll my eyes, grab the coffee mug he’s been ignoring. “This time you don’t get to play the drunk soldier. You’re giving your sister away.”
His face twists. That crack widens. For a second, I think he’s going to say no. That he can’t. That it’s too much.
Instead, he drags a hand down his face, mutters, “She deserves better than me limping down the aisle beside her.”
“You’re here,” I snap, sharper than I mean to. My throat tightens. “That’s all she ever wanted. That’s all any of us ever wanted.”
Silence folds between us. Heavy. Loud.
I turn, pretending to fuss with the dress, but I feel him watching me. Always watching, like he’s memorising me in case I vanish.
The wedding is three days away. Three days until I stand beside Lola while she starts a new life, while Dax pretends the past doesn’t sit heavy in his bones. Three days until everyone celebrates, and we try to believe we’re whole enough to celebrate too.
He hates the sound his boots make now.
That uneven drag-thud across the kitchen floor, like the limp is announcing itself before he even speaks.
Dax slams a mug down hard enough the handle cracks. “Fucking useless.”
My head jerks up. “You’re not.”
His laugh is sharp, bitter, and it cuts me deeper than any shrapnel ever could. He leans against the counter, shoulders hunched, jaw tight, blue eyes burning like he’s trying to scorch the whole room.
“Look at me, Cass.” He gestures at the leg he drags like a curse. “I didn’t come back whole. I’m not the man I was.”
My throat aches. “You came back alive.”
“Barely.” His voice drops, guttural. “And you deserve better than barely. You should find someone who isn’t broken. Someone who doesn’t wake up choking on sand and blood.Someone who won’t fucking limp into your life like a crippled ghost.”
I feel my chest cave, ribs folding in on my lungs, but I don’t move. I don’t run. I don’t flinch.
Instead, I step closer. “You think I care about whole? You think I care about perfect?”
He shakes his head, harsh, violent. “You should.”
I stop in front of him, so close his breath brushes mine. My hands tremble, but I force them onto his chest anyway, right over the heartbeat that still thunders no matter how much he hates himself.
“I’d rather have your broken than anyone else’s whole.”
He freezes. His eyes close for a second, like the words hurt more than the limp ever could.
When they open, they’re glassy. Fractured. Furious.
“Don’t say that, Butterfly,” he whispers, voice shaking. “Don’t love me like this.”
But I do.
God help me, I do.
