I snorted. “I’m the coward who let the security team drag you outside.”
He finished the cookie, wiped his fingers on the sheet. “You tried to stop them.”
“I didn’t try hard enough.”
He looked at me then, really looked. “If you had, they’d have killed you, too.”
I swallowed, throat closing up. The memory of Bart’s fist, the taste of blood and ice, came back in a rush. “They could have.”
He reached out, not fast, not pushy, just let his hand rest palm-up on the edge of the mattress. A truce, or maybe just an invitation.
I didn’t know what to do with it, so I just sat there, heart banging in my ribs.
A nurse poked her head in, checked the chart, and left. The world kept spinning, but in here, it was just us, a battered man with more scars than skin and a girl who’d failed every single person she cared about.
He cleared his throat. “Vin’s mad, but he’ll get over it. He doesn’t like the press.”
“I don’t blame him,” I said. “My dad’s the same way.”
Axel huffed, then winced again. “He hates me, huh?”
I shook my head. “No. He just… doesn’t know what to do when someone doesn’t flinch.”
We sat for a minute, the only sounds the distant beep of monitors and the wind rattling the windows.
Finally, I said, “Why’d you do it? The Santa thing.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I saw the flyer. Saw you in it. I put your name with your father’s.” He chuckled. “I have a long history of powerful men and their daughters.”
I rolled my eyes. “So I was a target.”
“Why did you do it?” he asked. “Sitting on Santa’s lap like that?”
I shrugged, and he held up a hand to stop me.
“Preacher’s daughter rebelling,” he said, hitting the bullseye.
The silence came back, but it wasn’t so heavy this time. I wondered if he’d ever felt safe, or if every day was just another fight to the next one. I wanted to ask more, but he looked tired, the kind of tired that no cookie in the world could fix. I stood, straightened my dress, and tried to smooth my hair into submission.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” I said.
“You don’t have to.”
I smiled, smaller this time. “I want to.”
He nodded, but didn’t say anything. I left him with the cookies and with the silence.
In the hallway, I found Vin leaning against a vending machine, hands shoved deep in his vest pockets. He glanced at me, then at the room behind me.
“Is he gonna make it?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Vin looked at me, his face a map of old regrets. “He’ll make it. Tougher than he looks.”
I wanted to ask if that was true, or if it was just the lie men like Vin told to keep from caring too much.
I left the hospital, the rain finally letting up, and walked the three blocks home. When I got there, I peeled off the shoes, tossed them in the garbage, and went straight to my room.
I thought about Axel, about the way he’d chewed through the pain, about the way he’d looked at me with something almost like understanding. I thought about how easy it was to let people hurt you, and how hard it was to let them in. I curled up in bed, cookies still on my hands, and didn’t cry.
