So I let him have his space and kept on until everything was neatly sorted. He paused at the foot of the bed, looking at the garment bags as if they were something dangerous. Then he forced a small, tight smile.
“You should shower,” he said. “It’ll help.”
I met his gaze. “And you’ll still be here when I get out?”
His eyes met mine, full of something he didn’t say. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I’ll be here.”
I took him at his word.
In the shower, the water helped my muscles unwind, but nothing helped my mind. Every time I closed my eyes I saw him flinch at shadows, saw his fingers tapping against his thigh whenever his phone vibrated, saw him trying so hard not to fall apart. The dragon paced in my chest, restless and growing more agitated by the minute.
When I finally stepped back into the bedroom, dripping and toweling my hair, the quiet hit me hard. Too quiet. Wrong quiet.
“Phoenix?” I called.
Nothing.
My stomach clenched until I heard a cupboard close in the kitchen. I exhaled, relieved. He was just getting tea, maybe. I turned back to the bed to finish sorting clothes, and a belt snagged on the comforter pulling it a little. Impatiently I yanked it up—and something slid out from under the pillowcase.
A plain white envelope.
The fuck? I picked it up, turning it over in my fingers. No name. No markings. Just heavy, thick paper that made my gut twist the second it touched my hand. “Phoenix?” I called again, louder this time.
I opened the envelope.
Cash flooded out—thick, stiff bills spilling across the bedspread like they’d been waiting there all along. I counted without meaning to, hands numb. A hundred.
Two.
Five.
Ten.
Five thousand dollars. The room wavered. It didn’t make sense. No, it made too much sense.
The ringing in my head drowned out everything else. The money spread across my bed looked like evidence. Like truth laid bare. Like betrayal given shape.
Footsteps approached softly, and Phoenix appeared in the doorway with two mugs of tea. His wet hair clung to his forehead, and for one fleeting moment he looked so eager to take care of me that it hurt.
Then he saw my face. Then he saw the bed. The mugs fell from his hands and shattered across the floor.
All color drained from him.
“Cole…” he whispered.
My fingers shook as I held up the mostly empty envelope. “What is this?”
He didn’t answer. He stared at the money like it was a venomous thing—something he’d prayed I’d never touch, never question.
And in that breathless, agonizing moment…I knew.
This was the secret that had been tearing him apart. The thing behind every flinch. Every half-truth. Every panicked look at his phone. Every lie dressed up as protection.
He still didn’t move. Not when the mugs shattered. Not when tea spread over the carpet. Not when the envelope sagged in my hand, spilling its ugly contents over the blankets.
He stood there barefoot and devastated.
My heartbeat thudded in my ears, slow and heavy, drowning everything.
