In the mirror, I adjust, exaggerating the expression the way she showed me. It clicks a little more this time. I grin back at my reflection when I get it right.
I adjust, exaggerate the expression, and grin, knowing it’s right this time.
It clicks—how much of this language isn’t just hands, but face, body, intent. A whole system that sayseverythingwithout sound.
And I want to learn all of it.
Every single piece of her world.
Where. When. Why.
I sign them again, slower. Not perfect, but better.
For the first time, I can almost picture it: me sitting across from her, signing clumsy words that she actually understands. No interpreter. No barrier. Just her and me.
And then the thought, the memory of my admission, hits hard—if my scent match showed up tomorrow, I wouldn’t care.
Not even a little.
If a shot or pill existed to cut that bond clean, I’d take it right now. Hell, I’d inject it myself if it meant I got to keep getting to know her.
She’s it. Not because she’s my match. Because shefeelslike the right one.
And yeah, she’s insecure, cautious, scared—and I get it. To anyone else, that might be frustrating. To me, it just makes me want to fight harder. Not for her attention. For hertrust.For the version of her that still thinks she’s worth less, because one asshole couldn’t see what she’s made of.
I lower my hands and stare at my reflection again.
“Whatever it takes,” I whisper. “I’m not letting you think you’re unworthy ever again.”
The mirror doesn’t answer, but I see the look in my own eyes, the one I get before a fight I know I can’t walk away from.
Maybe I’m a fool. Maybe she’ll push me away again tomorrow. But she’s worth it. Every shaky sign, every late-night text, every risk of pissing off her brother.
I switch off the light and head for bed, phone still silent beside me. My hands ache, my chest aches worse, but I fall asleep smiling, anyway.
Because for the first time in years, I’m fighting for something that isn’t about pride or the adrenaline rush or proving myself.
I’m fighting forher.
18
Bayleigh
I slept like shit.Tossing and turning all night, replaying our conversation in my head. When the sun finally came up, I was groggy and hollow. All I want is to stay curled up in my blankets away from the reality of the world.
All I can think about is Lincoln’s last text to me—“Sure it is.”
If only it could be. As much as I want to believe what he says, my past makes me wary. Other than James and Benton, no one’s stayed around. Cared about me or my feelings. I was just a joke or worse, a way to worm themselves into my brother’s life.
Sitting up, I wipe the sleep from my eyes before looking around my room. I can’t hide in here and fall back into my old habits. Never again will I allow anyone to make me feel like I’m less than, just because I can’t hear. Which, thanks to my failing implant, the sounds I can hear are fading away into quietness.
I throw the blankets off me and swing my legs off the side of the bed, my eyes darting over to my nest in the corner. It’s nothing major, just a large fluffy pillow that I can cocoon myself in, stuffed animals, and some plush blankets. And if I’m going to skip the next heat, I need to let Mom know to getthe suppressants. Otherwise, I’ll have to decide what my second option will be. But that’s a problem for another day.
Getting dressed, I head downstairs. When I enter the kitchen, I see Mom and Benton standing at the counter, no doubt waiting for the coffee to percolate. I can smell the rich scent brewing. They’re signing and talking. About me. Most would think it’s odd that they’re signing without me in the room, but in this home, it’s second nature. My parents never wanted me to walk into a room and not know what was being said.
“Benton, honey, you have to let your sister live her own life. You and this Korbin guy aren’t responsible for what Gina did. You can’t keep carrying that around. It’s time to let it go and for the two of you to drop this silly rivalry you have. You might be surprised. The two of you might actually like each other. Even become friends.”
“Unlikely. Too much time has passed with too many words said. I know hockey players, Mom. I just don’t want Bayleigh to get hurt again. I don’t want her to relive the same shit that happened with Joseph.” He drops down into the chair at the table, and Mom pours a cup of coffee for each of them, taking them to the table. I step back just enough so that I can still see them sign, but so they don’t notice me. Not yet anyway.
