When he came down, he wore one of my old flannels, rolled up at the sleeves, and sweatpants that were two inches too short.He looked ridiculous, and also more at home than I’d ever seen him.
He didn’t sit. Just stood behind the couch, staring at the fire.
After a while, I asked, “You want to talk about it?”
“No.” He circled the coffee table twice, as if warming up to the idea. Then, “I lost everything today.”
I wanted to argue, but I knew the rules. You don’t fix it, you don’t contradict it, you just let him say it.
He kept going. “Every fucking design I ever made. My first tattoo machine. The bike parts. My books. All of it, gone.”
“It’s not gone,” I said. “It’s just broken.”
He made a sound—half laugh, half sob—and kicked the edge of the table, not hard but enough to make the whiskey glasses rattle. Then, suddenly, he was on his knees in front of the couch, hands gripping the edge so tight his knuckles went bone-white.
“I don’t know if I can do it again,” he said.
I leaned forward, careful of the pain, and rested my hand on his head. The hair was still damp from the shower, and the tips stuck up in a way that made him look younger, softer.
“You don’t have to,” I said. “Not tonight.”
He bent forward until his head touched my knee. He shook once, then again, and finally the dam broke. He started to cry. Not the dignified kind, not the kind you wipe away and never speak of, but the ugly, shuddering sobs of a man who’s lost the one thing that kept him upright. His shoulders shook, the sound muffled by denim, and I let it happen, let him lean into me as hard as he needed.
I stroked his hair, ignoring the shrieks of pain from my ribs, and tried not to think about what I’d do if he didn’t stop. I’d never been good at comfort, but right now I would have set myself on fire if it helped.
After a while, he stilled. The sound faded to ragged breaths, then silence.
He looked up, eyes swollen and red. “Sorry,” he said, voice raw. “Didn’t mean to lose it.”
“Fuck that,” I said. “You get to lose it as much as you want.”
He tried to smile, failed, then just slumped forward, head on my lap, hands curled around my thighs. I thought about saying something more, something hopeful, but the best I could do was rest my hand on his back, palm flat over his spine, and let him feel the weight of me.
We stayed that way for a long time.
Eventually, I shifted, pulling him up onto the couch. He came willingly, and I wrapped my arms around him, holding him close, feeling every line of muscle and scar. His breathing slowed, but every few minutes I could feel a fresh tremor run through him, like aftershocks from the main event.
I pressed my face into the top of his head. “You’re home, Ransom. You’re safe.”
He didn’t answer, but I felt the way he clung to me, the way his hands tightened around my waist.
The fire cracked and spit, painting shadows on the far wall.
After a while, I felt him relax. Just a little. I knew it wouldn’t last, not with what we had ahead, but it was enough for tonight.
I closed my eyes, let the pain fade to background noise, and thought about the day Knox had shown up at the station with a black eye and a broken nose and refused to press charges. “Some fights,” he said, “aren’t about who wins. They’re just about who’s still standing at the end.”
Ransom was still standing. So was I.
We’d figure the rest out later.
For now, I held him, and didn’t let go.
After the shop destruction and the hospital and the world watching us like we were a fucking reality show, the house went dead quiet at night. I could hear the clock in the hallway, ticking off the seconds, the slow build of wind as it curled around theeaves, but mostly what I heard was his breathing. Ransom didn’t snore. Never had. But when he finally slept, really slept, his chest made this low, contented noise—almost a purr, if I was the kind of sap who’d use that word.
I lay on my side, arm draped over his stomach, tracing the lines of ink with a fingertip. He didn’t react, not even when I ran the edge of my nail along the place where the wolf tattoo vanished under the hem of his t-shirt. Maybe he was too tired, or maybe he just didn’t think he was worth waking up for.
He always slept on his back, like he was daring the universe to hit him again. The light from the hallway made a faint halo around his head, highlighting the red in his bear and the long, reckless spike of hair that never lay flat, no matter what he did.
