The workshop is freezing when I slip inside, the door shutting with a soft thud behind me. I brace my hands on the workbench, bowing my head as breath shudders out of me.
The drawing sits on the wood, innocent and devastating.
A hero.
If she knew how wrong she was—how much blood and failure and wreckage sits in my past—she wouldn’t draw me like that. She wouldn’t look at me with trust. She wouldn’t hand me hope like it’s something I know how to hold.
I press the heels of my palms into my eyes. I shouldn’t care this much. I shouldn’t let myself care at all.
But the truth is brutal and undeniable:
I like that kid. More than I should. And I am starting to care about her mother in ways that feel like stepping off a cliff.
Tears I didn’t feel coming burn hot at the corners of my eyes. I breathe hard through them, shoulders tightening, jaw locking. The storm outside is nothing compared to the one in my chest.
A soft knock sounds against the workshop door.
“Ava?” I call, clearing the gravel from my voice. “Everything okay?”
Silence.
Another knock—gentler this time. But she doesn’t open the door. Doesn’t call back. Doesn’t push.
She knows something’s wrong. She knows I’m shutting her out again.
The quiet between us is thick enough to choke on.
“Just… give me a minute,” I say, low.
I hear her exhale—a faint, trembling sound. Then soft footsteps retreating down the hall.
When she’s gone, I let my head fall forward, eyes closing tight.
I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to let anyone in without breaking them… or myself.
But the drawing sits there, bright against the worn wood, refusing to be ignored.
And for the first time in years, I’m terrified of both options—holding on or letting go.
Either way, something is going to shatter. And I don’t know if I can survive the wreckage again.
Chapter Eighteen
Ava
Violet spends the afternoon curled on the rug with her sketchbook, headphones on, humming to music only she can hear. She’s still pale from a scare this morning, but her color has returned, her numbers steady. I’ve checked them twice. She checked them once more. We pretend not to worry in front of each other.
Jax putters around the cabin after lunch—silent, uneasy in his own skin. I see him looking at Violet’s drawing at least twice before he tucks it away somewhere I can’t see. He hasn’t spoken much since retreating to the workshop earlier, and I haven’t pressed. His walls shift constantly—some days brick, some days fog, some days a mix of both.
By three o’clock, I’ve cleaned a kitchen that didn’t need cleaning, reorganized a drawer that was already organized, and folded blankets that didn’t require folding. Restlessness claws at me.
I wander down the hallway toward the laundry nook…and that’s when I notice it.
A small, narrow closet door cracked open. Inside—bare metal gleaming. Wires. Panels. A blinking blue light.
I step closer, breath catching.
This is not a normal fuse box.
