And I did.
I liked it, the way he took charge. The way he didn’t ask for permission, or act like I was breakable. It made me feel less like a problem to be solved, and more like a person worth protecting.
As he finished, he looked over at me. His face softened, just a little, and he held out his hand. I took it, and he pulled me in, arm slung around my shoulder.
“You ready for this?” he asked.
I didn’t answer, because I wasn’t. But with him holding me up, I could fake it.
He led me out of the room, down the hall, and into the day that was waiting for us.
The kitchen was already awake before we got there—voices low, plates clinking, the kind of background noise that made it sound like a regular morning, except I knew it wasn’t.
I’d barely made it three steps before Ma appeared in the hall, balancing two mugs of coffee and wearing her best “I’ve already seen everything so don’t even bother lying” expression.
She handed one mug straight to Jo, her fingers lingering on his for a half-second too long, like she was making sure he wouldn’t drop it. Then she offered the other to me, the heat bleeding into my fingers and grounding me in the moment. Inoticed she’d left room for cream, just the way I liked, and the gesture made my throat go tight.
Her gaze did a quick tour of me, then settled on the collar. I felt my cheeks start to heat up, but I didn’t duck my head or reach to cover it. Instead, I stood a little taller, letting her look as long as she wanted.
Behind me, Jo’s hand landed gentle on my hip, thumb rubbing circles through the shirt fabric. I glanced up at him, and he gave me that slow nod of approval, the one that said: Go ahead, kid. Show ‘em what you’re made of.
Ma arched an eyebrow, but there was no real judgment in her face. Just a long, searching look, then a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “You boys sleep okay?” she asked, voice even and soft.
“Yeah, Ma,” I said, meeting her gaze. “Best night I’ve had in a while.”
She set her hand against my cheek, the way she used to do when I was little and feverish, and patted it once. “Glad to hear it.” She stepped back, but before she could head down the hall, she turned to Jo. “Knox wants to see both of you in the shop before you leave. Don’t make him wait or he’ll set the whole place on fire.”
Jo grinned, the smile splitting his face in two. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Ma.”
She snorted and disappeared, the sound of her slippers scuffing on the old hardwood fading as she turned the corner.
We took our coffee out the back door, the screen rattling shut behind us. The air was cold enough to sting, the ground slick with dew and last night’s frost. The yard looked different in the morning light—softer, less like a battlefield and more like the kind of place I might have actually called home if I’d ever learned how.
Jo’s hand found the small of my back, guiding me down the porch steps and across the dirt to the outbuildings. The muscle memory kicked in, and I timed my steps so his palm stayed right at the spot where it felt best, a little bit protective and a lot possessive.
The wind carried the smell of burnt logs and damp earth. Somewhere in the distance, I heard a chainsaw start up, then die off quick. My boots crunched on the gravel path, the sound echoing off the side of the barn. Jo walked steady beside me, his own steps heavy and deliberate, like he was daring anyone to challenge us on the way.
I could see the light on in the workshop, the shapes of my brothers moving inside—shadows bent over a table, heads close, voices overlapping in a low hum. My chest started to squeeze in the old, familiar way, but every time I tried to slow down or hang back, Jo’s hand pressed me forward.
“Still nervous?” he asked, voice barely more than a whisper.
I shrugged, not trusting myself to talk.
He squeezed my side. “It’s just them, Bo. You already did the hard part.”
He was right. Last night I’d let everything bleed out in front of the whole clan, and the world hadn’t ended. If anything, it had just shifted, like a river changing course after a flood. But the idea of walking in there and seeing the looks on my brothers’ faces, knowing what they knew now, still made me want to puke.
We reached the door, Jo’s hand sliding up to the back of my neck. I could feel the collar under his palm, could feel the steady drumbeat of my pulse against his thumb. He looked down at me, eyes dark and calm. “Ready?”
I nodded, and together we stepped inside, bracing for whatever came next.
Inside, the workshop was all cold cement and dim light, the windows fogged with years of sawdust and bad habits. Thefamiliar scent of motor oil and pine resin was thick enough to taste.
All four brothers were there, arranged around a battered workbench like it was an altar. Knox was at the head, arms folded, chin down, watching as Ransom marked something on a big sheet of butcher paper with a fat red Sharpie. Harlow and Quiad flanked them, both doing their best impressions of guys who weren’t about to murder someone on a Sunday morning.
I felt the shift the second I crossed the threshold—the way all their heads turned, every eye running a fast inventory of Jo and me, like they were recalculating how the numbers stacked up.
Jo’s hand went from my neck to my hip, grip tightening just enough to remind me he was there, solid as ever. I let him lead, staying half a step behind.
