She nods slowly. Doesn’t look at me.
Just breathes.
And then, barely audible I hear:
“I love you.”
It’s not grand. It’s not tearful. It’s solid. Like a truth she’s known longer than she could admit. Like the words finally caught up to the feeling.
I glance over at her, but I don’t speak. I don’t need to. Wrapping my arm around her and pulling her into my lap, I kiss her temple again and repeat the words back to her.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I don’t look. It’s likely Will or JT trying to figure things out. The fight at Stauder’s warehouse starts in less than an hour.
Too fucking bad.
This is where I’m needed, and this is where I’ll stay.
Ikill the engine. The morning air’s sharp enough to sting my lungs as I head for the back entrance of Ruin's End. Just the one missed call. No texts. That alone would be enough to set me on edge… but not hearing fromeitherof them the rest of the night?
That’s a problem.
The bar should’ve closed out around two. They knew damn well I didn’t show up to fight. I told Will. Told JT. And still—nothing?
Unlocking the steel door, I step into the quiet hush of the bar.
The whole place holds the echo of someone who walked off mid-close out.
Chairs are up. Bar top’s been wiped down but there’s no reflection in the grain, the way Will gets it. The bottles are all in their places behind the counter, but not aligned by label and height.
I track around the bar. No prepped limes in the fridge. No folded clean bar towels in the bin under the register. Half-assed rinsed mats.
By the time my eyes track the mop bucket near the entrance, the handle leaning against the counter, I’m sprinting toward the loft.
Not Will clean.
Something's wrong.
I move fast, sneakers heavy on the stairs. If I’m not here, JT’s usually crashing up top.
I push the door open and there he is.
JT—sitting at the kitchen counter, elbows on the cold stone, face in his hands. He looks up when he hears me and damn near jumps out of his skin.
“Hex,” he says, voice hoarse. “Shit.”
“Where’s Will?”
The bathroom door creaks behind me, and I whirl around.
Will steps out.
And I stop breathing.
His lip is split and swollen, dried blood tracing the corner of his mouth. His left eye is black and puffed near shut. Bruising creeps from his jaw down his neck, the shape of fingerprints stamped in deep red ink. One side of his shirt is ripped, exposing scrapes and swelling along his ribs. His knuckles are busted open—barely scabbed and raw—and he’s limping.
Will—tall and lean, normally a goddamn pretty boy with those light brown waves and bright blue eyes—is wrecked.
