Five, almost six years, and he still wears it.
Grace sees it too.
I watch her gaze linger on that ring, see the understanding dawn on her face.
She doesn't ask. Doesn't push.
Just settles back against my shoulder and lets it go.
Good. Banshee doesn't need questions right now.
He needs what he's been giving me—loyalty, presence, silence when words would only make it worse.
We stop for gas and food somewhere near the New Mexico state line.
While Banshee's filling the tank, I take Grace inside the convenience store.
I won't let her go alone. Can't.
She doesn't complain.
Just lets me hover, lets me stay close, lets me be the paranoid, overprotective husband I've become.
We grab snacks, water, and coffee that tastes like battery acid but will keep us awake.
At the counter, Grace picks up a bag of Charlie's favorite treats. "For the road."
The cashier rings us up, and we head back outside.
Banshee's leaning against the truck, and I notice he's watching a family at the next pump.
Young couple, maybe late twenties.
A toddler in the backseat, laughing at something.
The look on Banshee's face guts me.
Longing. Pain. Grief so raw it's almost physical.
Then he sees me watching, and the mask slams back into place.
"You get me anything?" he asks, voice too bright, too casual.
"Yeah." I toss him a bag of chips and an energy drink. "Your usual garbage."
"Perfect."
But I saw it, the crack in his armor.
And I know Grace saw it too, because her hand finds mine and squeezes tight.
Back on the road, Grace asks, "So Banshee, when are you going to settle down? Find yourself an ol’ lady?"
The silence that follows is immediate and heavy.
I shoot her a warning look, but it's too late.
Banshee's jaw works. "Not in the cards for me."
