Reese raises an eyebrow, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, but he doesn’t argue. “I won’t. I promise. I’ll just get the windshield fixed,” he says.
I turn toward Damian. His jaw is locked tight, eyes narrowed, but something flickers through him. A shift in his face. Not quite shame. Not quite regret. Just a shadow of something he doesn’t want me to see.
“Will he really not hurt him?” I ask.
Damian lowers his gaze and gives a slight nod. It’s reluctant. But it’s enough.
Cody walks up beside me and touches his hand to my elbow. “I’ll stay with them, Lo. Nothing bad will happen, I promise.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Nathan’s still standing by the car. The interior is littered with broken glass. The pieces catch the light like glitter. He’s staring at me like he doesn’t recognize what’s happening. His hands curl, uncurl. He looks like he wants to say a dozen things and doesn’t know which one to pick. “You’re going to go with him?” he asks, voice strained. “Just like that?”
The words land harder than I expect. I flinch. Because no, it’s not just like that. Nothing with Damian has ever been simple. I’m not going because I forgive him.I’m still so angry and confused by all of this. I’m going because I need answers. And if I have to sit in a room with the devil himself to get them, I will. I meet Nathan’s gaze and shake my head slowly. “Thank you for driving us back.”
His expression darkens. “Lo, you can’t be serious.”
Bridger steps between us, his voice low but firm. “She’ll be fine. Let’s take this conversation to my place.” He turns to Reese. “Fix this up for him. Meet us there.”
Reese gives a short nod, already pulling his phone from his pocket. Nathan doesn’t move. He stands there frozen, staring at me, his face a mask of horror. His eyes flick to Damian, then to Neve, then back to me. “Really, Lo?” he asks, voice tight.
I nod. “I’ll be fine. I’ll text you.” He doesn’t like it. Not one bit. But he doesn’t argue again. He just stands there, stunned, like he can’t figure out how the hell he ended up there.
Before I can say anything else, I feel it—Damian’s hand at the small of my back. Warm. Possessive in a way that makes my pulse jump. He says nothing, just guides me gently toward his SUV. He opens the passenger side door for me, then holds out his hand.
I hesitate for a breath. My eyes flick to his face. There’s weariness in it—etched deep into the lines around his mouth, under his eyes. He looks older somehow. Not in years, but in damage. Like whatever he’s been through aged him overnight.
His cheek looks mangled, the gash worse up close than I expected. A long rivulet of blood snakes from it down to his jaw, then drips off his chin. The sight makes something tighten in my chest.What the hell happened to him?
His gaze drops to mine. And in that instant, I see it. I seehim. Not the man who punched out a windshield. Not the one who kept secrets and let me fall apart in silence. I seemy Damian. And he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world that makes sense. There’s a plea in his eyes. A desperation that runs deeper than fear. Like he knows this is his last shot and he’s not sure he deserves it.
Something shifts inside me. Not forgiveness. Not trust. Just movement. Just breath. I can breathe again. And I take his hand.
His grip is firm, solid, as he helps me climb up into the seat. I settle in, heart pounding, nerves buzzing like static under my skin. He shuts the door with a quiet click.
Damian rounds the front of the SUV and climbs into the driver’s seat. He doesn’t start the engine right away. Just sits there, breathing hard, blood still dripping from his chin, his hands gripping the wheel. His knuckles are a torn, bloody mess with shards of glass embedded in raw, split skin. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t loosen his grip, as if the pain is the punishment he’s decided he deserves.
Then he turns to me. His eyes trace over my face, pausing at my mouth, my eyes, my throat—like he’s memorizing every piece of me in case I vanish. He reaches across the console and cups the back of my neck. His palm is warm. Steady. A little rough. The feel of it sends heat curling through me like smoke. “I fucking love you, Lo,” he says.
The words slam into me. No hesitation. No soft lead-in. Just the truth, ripped straight from whatever raw place inside him has finally cracked open. It stirs something deep in my belly. Something old and aching and starved. His gaze doesn’t waver,even as it flicks over my features like he’s terrified I won’t say it back.
I open my mouth to speak, to give him something—anything—but the back doors open at the same time. Bridger climbs in behind him. Neve slips in beside him, letting out a low groan as she settles into the seat. The moment breaks. I close my mouth, swallow hard, and stare out the windshield while Damian starts the engine. But my skin still burns where he touched me. And the words are still echoing in my chest.
The drive is fast and no one talks. Damian’s hand stays clenched on the wheel the entire time, blood drying along the curve of his fingers. The silence fills every inch of the SUV. It sits on my chest like weight. By the time we pull up to Bridger’s place, my stomach is in knots.
I’ve never been to Bridger’s apartment before. I expected it to feel temporary—empty, like someone crashing for a few months before disappearing again. But when I step inside, I’m caught off guard.
It’s lived in. Fully. There are boots by the door, different pairs, like he has a routine and never leaves in the same ones. Framed photos line the hallway, not staged or decorative, but real—Bridger and Damian with Cody at a beach bonfire, one of Delilah smiling with a birthday cake in front of her, frosting on her cheek. There’s a blanket folded over the arm of the couch, worn at the edges, like it’s been used a hundred times. The kitchen has magnets and a grocery list and a half-full bottle of vitamins sits on the counter.
It’s a home. He’s not just staying here. He’s settled. Bridger Cross has put down roots in this place, in this town, and I didn’t even notice. And Damian… He hasn’t left either. He’s still here. He stayed. I was so afraid he wouldn’t that I never let myself consider what it meant that hedid. I didn’t look at the signs. Ididn’t ask the questions. Even Delilah’s memory care facility is less than an hour from here.
How the hell didn’t I see it?
Maybe because I was too wrapped up in my own fears. Too stuck in that part of me that always thought people don’t stay. That if you look away for one second, they’re gone.
But none of that matters now.
What matters is that my apartment is gone. My business is ash. Everything I own has been burned or buried in the ruins. I am standing barefoot in someone else’s living room wearing a crop top with burn holes in it, and I have no idea what the hell is happening or what comes next.
