Jesus.
Chase scrubbed a hand down his face, realizing just how much power those words carried.
In that moment, standing under the bright lights, he hadn’t realized exactly what he was saying.
But now?
Now, he knew.
He had just told the entire fucking state of North Carolina that he was moving forward.
That he was no longer holding onto the past. That he was no longer clinging to what could have been.
And yet—
He was still here.
Still sitting on this dock. Still feeling every ghost of her touch on his skin. Still haunted by her echoes.
His phone buzzed in his hand.
Jaxon:Just watched the interview. Dude, you look like hell.
Chase scoffed, shaking his head. “This motherfucker,” he muttered, but there was no heat behind it.
Because Jaxon was right.
He sighed, thumb hovering over the keyboard before he finally typed a response.
Chase:I’m on it. Thanks, man.
That was all that needed to be said. Because there was nothing else to say.
Chase pushed up from the dock, stretching out muscles that had been coiled tight for months, making his way back inside the house, flipping on the bathroom light.
And what he saw in the mirror?
It wasn’t him.
Not really. The man staring back at him looked hollowed out.
His beard had grown out too long, the dark scruff now borderline unruly. His hair was a mess, his skin looked tired, his eyes were weighed down by exhaustion. He looked like he had been rode hard and hung out to dry.
Jaxon was right.
Shaking his head, Chase turned on the clippers, trimming his beard back down to the length it had always been—sharp, clean, effortless. He brushed his teeth, ran his hands through his mess of hair, and stepped into the shower.
The water was hot, scalding even, but he needed it.
Needed to feel something other than the cold emptiness he’d been walking around with for two months.
When he stepped out, he wiped the fog from the mirror, staring at himself again.
Better.
Still broken. But better.
His phone buzzed on the counter.
