I take the mug and flick her nose with my finger—because it’s easier than words this early.
She scrunches her face, swats my hand, but the smile doesn’t slip.
“You’re way too perky. I don’t like it,” I grumble. I cradle the mug with both hands and mutter, “Morning people are the worst, especially when I am still half drunk.”
Behind me, the apartment hums with background noise—Logan’s low voice drifting from the sofa as he talks to Dean on the phone, the scrape of a fork as Sam demolishes a plate of eggs withstuffon it. Like seeds, nuts, snot… oh, no, that’s probably avocado. It’s like he’s in training for the goddamn Olympics, or something. Chace clicks his lighter like it’s a nervous tick. If he doesn’t stop, I’m fifty percent tempted to snatch it and lob it into the harbor just to watch him flinch.
Move the fuck on, Baker.
It’s loud, but it’s our loud.
Mac sets down plates, calling out plans like a commander dividing up the day. “Logan and I are heading over to the house.I want to see how far they’ve gotten on the repairs.” She glances at him, and he nods, still cradling his phone against his shoulder.
Why does she have to shout?
“Gym for me,” Sam mumbles around a mouthful of his healthy snot-looking breakfast, flexing his arm like he’s already imagining it bigger. “Need to sweat this shit out.”
Gonna sweat you out…
Chace tips his chair back, balancing dangerously on two legs, smirk lazy. “Lunch with my uncle. He says it’s business, but I’m betting it’s just him wanting to get me into a suit for once.”
Cool, go play dress up and let me sleep.
They all look at me then, like I’m supposed to have something on the calendar. I scratch the back of my neck, staring into the black swirl of my coffee.
Bed. I’m going back to bed… oh, shit.
The memory hits—my actual plan for the day. I take a long, drawn-out sip, the coffee burning all the way down to my stomach. “I’m gonna go see my mom,” I say finally, voice low.
The words settle heavy over the table. Even Sam pauses mid-bite.
“It’s been a few months. Too long.” I clear my throat, pushing the mug away so I don’t have to stare at my reflection in it.
Hopefully, she’s lucid enough to know who I am this time.
Silence hangs for a beat before the noise picks up again—Sam crunching on some sourdough toast, Mac clinking plates, Logan’s voice drifting through another call—but it’s different now. Softer around the edges.
I lean back in the chair, stretching my legs out, staring past the glass wall at the city sparkling in the daylight. My chest tightens.
My moms in a private place—safe, well cared for—so why the fuck do I still drown in guilt every time I think of her there, so frail… so lost. I’ve done more for her than I can remember her ever doing for me. But that’s not why she’s getting round-the-clock specialist care. I have the money, and it’s not like I can take her on tour with me, with us. She’s safe there. Looked after. Better off than if she were with me, that’s for sure. But every time I walk through those doors, the smell of disinfectant and stale air smothering me, it breaks me a little more. Seeing her small. Seeing her lost.
Some days she looks right at me and it’s like the old her is there—sharp, quick, laughing at something only we’d get. But most days… she just stares. Past me. Through me. Like I’m no one.
It guts me. Every time.
“Are you looking for any company, bro?”
“Not today…” I mumble, shaking my head.
I’ve let too many weeks slip by, burying myself in music and chaos and pretending that distance doesn’t make me a coward. I can make a million excuses not to see her, depending on the day… I run a hand through my hair, tugging at the roots until my scalp aches. The sound of bacon sizzling, Sam’s chewing, Chace’s lighter clicking—it all blurs in the background. For a second, I let myself sink into the dread coiled in my gut.
Today, I’ll face it. Today, I’ll go.
The coffee doesn’t fix my head, but it gives me enough grit to push through. By the time I’ve showered, brushed my teeth and pulled on some clean clothes; boots, jeans, and a dark hoodie, the others are already scattering to their plans. Sam’s rattling protein powder into a shaker, Chace’s texting with that smirk that says he’s being a smartass to somebody, and Mac’s fussing with Logan like he’s not still recovering from a bullet wound.
Stoneface gives me a nod from the doorway, keys in hand. He doesn’t ask where I’m going—just gestures toward the car.
The ride is quiet. Vancouver stretches past in smears of glass and rain-slicked concrete. The city hums, alive, but all I can hear is my pulse, steady and heavy. My fingers drum against my thigh, restless.
