Because he fights.
I step closer, the sound of my boots soft against the tile. The air between us shifts, filling with something unspoken that’s been building since we crossed the county line.
My fingers graze the edge of the counter as I come around, grounding myself before reaching out. I rest my hand near his, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin but not touching.
“You’ve been through hell, Hex,” I whisper, the words slipping out with my breath.
Then I close the distance between us, stepping into his space with the ease of someone who knows exactly where they fit. My arms wrap around his solid frame, folding into the kind of embrace that says,I see you too. I’m not going anywhere.
His chest rises against me, then stills, and for a second, I’m sure he’s forgotten how to breathe.
He doesn’t tense. Doesn’t pull away.
With a crawling calm, he leans back just enough to look down at me. And the look he gives me isn’t one I’ve seen before. It’s not the kind that makes your stomach flip or your pulse jump. It’s quieter. Still. Like I’ve reached some place in him no one else has, and he’s finally letting it be seen.
No fire.
No flirtation.
Just recognition.
The kind that settles deep in your bones.
And right there—in the soft hum of the kitchen, in the warmth of his arms and the steady, unshakable way he’s looking at me—every hesitation I’ve carried about what this might be between us… falls away.
The night grows legs. We snack on a few things he has at the house and move to the back patio. The air is cooler now, darkness stretching out for miles. He pours bourbon for us and nods toward a big, worn chair nestled in the corner.
“That’s my spot,” he says. “Best seat in the whole house.”
I settle in the chair across from him, quiet between us, twilight stretching soft and blue over the hills.
“I don’t want her dead,” I confess suddenly. “Ashley. I mean it.”
He nods. “I know.”
“I think… I want to believe she’s redeemable. She’s not evil. She’s just… lost. Hurt. And she hurts people because that’s what she knows.”
“You’ve got a generous heart, Sable”—he tilts the glass, letting the amber roll with the light—“but deep down, you know people like that don’t change. They learn how to pretend better. Then they hurt again. Hurt worse. And usually, the people trying to save them are the ones who bleed.” He lets a moment pass before adding, “Tell me that doesn’t sound familiar.”
I shift, the words settling under my skin. Not harsh. Not meant to be. But heavy.
“Her and Andrew are perfect for one another,” I murmur. “It's so fucked up.”
He looks over at me, eyes steady. “I know. And the fact that it bothers you says a lot about you—about the kind of person you are. You need things to be fixable. Believing in redemption feels safer than accepting some people just… won’t ever choose it.”
He’s not wrong.
The truth of it slides between my ribs. It’s gentle, but sharp enough to make me feel exposed. Andrew’s excuses, my father’s absence, wearing myself down to threads just to hand someone another chance.
I sip my bourbon, the warmth of it trailing down my throat, centering me. My eyes drift toward the trees, thick silhouettes swaying in the evening breeze. I focus on them. On the quiet. On the way this place seems to hold space for people like us. People worn out, still trying.
Hex doesn’t press. He just lets me sit with my thoughts.
And maybe that’s what softens me most.
After a minute, he adjusts in his seat, voice lower now. “Come here.”
I glance at him.
