We sit with those words between us while the marsh writes a line, erases it, writes it again.
The screen door clicks behind us.
Phoenix hesitates in the doorway, feet bare, hair damp, a hoodie swallowing her tiny frame. She looks smaller in my father’s house and somehow still more dangerous to my mental health than anyone who’s ever walked through it.
Zeus pads past her and flops at my boots like we’re done talking.
“Hi,” she says to Spencer, polite but not deferential. “Am I interrupting?”
“Not at all, Ms. Jones,” he returns, with the smallest bow that would offend my mother in ten languages.Phoenix is just the help, she’d say. She doesn’t rate a bow. Or even acknowledgement. “I was just about to head in for the evening.”
Sometimes I don’t know how I managed to stay with her as long as I did.
Actually—yes, I do. It was because I stayed with the guys, and not in her presence, unless it was specifically requested. Those times she did request I show up for something felt like I was burning and drowning all at once.
Phoenix steps onto the boards, the lamp behind her throwing a square of warm light onto the decking at her feet.
“Storm,” she says.
“Phoenix.”
“Come walk with me for a little while?”
There’s no wobble in it. No apology. Just a choice, but not even a real one. We all know that given any time with her, I’m going to jump on it like a dog on a bone.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, enjoying the way the words roll off my tongue and the smile they bring to Phoenix’s face.
I stand, the chair creaking with the movement. My hands want to reach for her but I don’t let them. Instead, I wait. She closes the distance halfway and stops, like she’s writing this step down so she can underline it later.
The night drops quiet around us. Far out, the buoy dings again like a blessing with a sense of humor. I look at her, at the line of stubbornness set into her mouth, at the banked heat under her eyes that isn’t fear.
Something in my chest loosens. Then it just… gives up and surrenders.
“Shoes,” I say. “You good with those little sandals?”
She lifts one foot, wiggles it, sets it back down. “I’m not made of glass, Storm.”
“No,” I say. “You’re not.” My gaze does one more sweep over her, checking what I’ve already checked a dozen times since we brought her here. No missed bruises. No hidden flinch. No deadness in her eyes. “Still gonna pretend I don’t worry, though.”
Her mouth twitches. “You can worry while we walk.”
She reaches out like it’s nothing. Like she’s always done it. Her hand hovers for half a heartbeat, then lands in mine.
Heat. Soft skin. The faintest tremor she probably thinks I don’t notice.
I close my fingers around hers. Not tight. Just enough so she knows I’m here. It hits low and hard, my brain doing a quick reboot. For one wild second, I think about hauling her against my chest and refusing to let go.
Instead, I nod. “Come on then.”
We step off the patio and onto the path that runs down to the marshy side of the island. The house lights fall behind us. The air shifts—cooler, wetter, full of salt and mud and green things. Thedock creaks under our feet. Somewhere out in the dark, frogs work on a messy chorus.
She walks beside me. Not behind me. Not hiding in my shadow. Beside me. It matters more than it should.
“You ever get used to it?” she asks.
“Used to what?”
She tips her head, listening to the soft rush and suck of water through grass in the distance. “The sound. The marsh.”
