I pull my arms tighter around myself, rocking in the damp, trying to shake him from my head. The way his tone stayed calm, almost tender, while the words promised ruin.
I swallow bile.
The wedding dress flashes in my mind—white, stiff, starched. The white meant to denote purity, but it seems lifeless to me, like an interred corpse.
And his threats…
I’ll break your body before I break your mind.
My nails dig crescents into my arms. I rock harder, lips moving soundlessly, reciting the scripture my father drilled into me since childhood. The lines come easy, but they taste like ash. Words stripped of meaning long ago. Words that never belonged to me, but that I can wield as armor when the silence turns heavy with his ghost.
The front door creaks. My head snaps up.
A man steps out, tall and steady, wearing a worn denim jacket against the drizzle. He stoops to pick something up from the porch—maybe the morning paper. His features are softened by distance and mist, but his presence is solid. Not Gideon.
I shrink further anyway, pressing myself into the bin, afraid to breathe.
Then another joins him. Leaner, hair swept back, leaning on a crutch as he steps into the doorway. His limp is obvious, yet he carries himself with a casual strength, like he refuses to let pain write his story.
He says something to the first man, voice low but warm. Teasing. Brotherly. Their laughter cuts through the fog, startling in its ease.
I almost rise. My muscles twitch, toes curling in my wet shoes, body urging me forward.
But fear nails me down.
What if Trey isn’t in there?
What if they look at me the way my father does—like something small, something wrong, something that deserves to be broken?
The thought of stepping out, of facing those eyes, of opening my mouth and asking for help… it freezes me harder than the cold.
Maybe I don’t belong here.
Maybe I don’t belong anywhere.
My chest heaves. My vision blurs. I press the paper harder to my heart, the only proof I have that Trey’s voice wasn’t just a dream.
I nearly turn to leave, but exhaustion pins me. My body won’t move, too heavy with damp and fear and nights without sleep.
The one with the crutch has stilled in the doorway, gaze shifting toward the bushes. His brow furrows, cautious but not cruel. His voice carries across the mist, low and careful.
“Hey… you alright out there?”
My heart slams.
The paper crinkles loud in my fist. Trey’s scrawl digs into my palm.
The drizzle hisses. My pulse drowns it all.
Do I stand? Do I step forward? Or do I run?
The porch light glows warm, golden, like a beacon. The pair wait. And I—
I can’t breathe.
He shifts his crutch forward, weight balanced, gaze steady. He doesn’t raise his voice or move too fast—just watches, patient.
“You uh… want some hot cocoa or a coffee? You look like you could do with something warm?”
