Jett turns to face me, his movements deliberate and controlled. His hand is still on my back, warm and solid and real, and I realize with startling clarity that I don't want him to move it. I want to press closer, burrow into the safety of his broad chest, let him wrap those massive, tattooed arms around me until I stop shaking like a leaf in a storm.
"You're trembling." His voice has gentled, gone rough with concern.
"I'm fine." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
"You're a terrible liar, Sparrow."
"So I've been told." I try to smile. It feels wrong on my face. "I just... they found me. I don't know how, but they found me, and now they'll tell Garrett, and he'll come, and?—"
"Sparrow." My name in his mouth cuts through the panic. "Look at me."
I do. Those steel gray eyes hold mine, steady and sure.
"Nothing happens to you while you're mine," he says. "Understand?"
"I'm not—" The words stick in my throat. Yours. His. I don't know how to finish that sentence.
"You are." He says it simply, like it's already decided. "For as long as you need to be. And when Ashworth comes looking, because we both know he will, he'll find me."
He leaves before I can respond. Just turns and walks away, disappearing into his office like he didn't just upend my entire world with a few sentences.
My body is buzzing. My heart is racing.
It's not fear. Not anymore.
The bar closes at two. I help Mama Rosa clean up, wiping down tables and stacking chairs, trying to exhaust myself enough to sleep. It doesn't work. My mind won't stop spinning.
I head downstairs expecting emptiness, hoping for it, craving the solitude of the darkened bar. Instead, I find Jett at the counter, a glass of amber whiskey glinting in front of him, shadows from the single overhead light playing across the scarred planes of his face.
He looks up when I appear in the doorway, my bare feet silent on the old wooden floor. Those steel-gray eyes sweep over me once, methodical and thorough, checking for visible damage, and something in their depths softens when he finds none—no fresh bruises, no tears.
"Can't sleep?"
I shake my head, wrapping my arms around myself.
He tilts his chin toward the empty stool beside him. An invitation, not a command.
I cross the room slowly and sit, the leather seat still warm from the day's heat. He pours me a drink without asking, the whiskey splashing into a clean glass, sliding it across the polished bar until it touches my fingers.
We sit in silence for a while, the only sound the occasional creak of the building settling. It should be uncomfortable, sitting here in the dark with this man who's seen too much violence, but it isn't. There's something unexpectedly peaceful about sharing space with someone who doesn't need to fill every quiet moment with meaningless words.
"You're going to ask eventually," I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper. "About Garrett. About what happened."
"I already know."
I go cold, ice flooding through my veins. "You?—"
"Ran you. Ran him." His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble. "I know who he is. What he's done. What he did to you."
I should be furious. He invaded my privacy, dug through my worst moments without my permission, excavated the things I've tried so hard to bury. But the anger won't come, refuses to spark. All I feel is relief, pure and overwhelming.
No more hiding. No more pretending. He knows, and he's still here, still sitting beside me like I'm not broken.
"Then you know he won't stop. He never stops."
"Neither will I."
I look at him properly, really look. The scar through his eyebrow. The hard lines of his face. The hands resting on the bar, scarred across the knuckles from years of violence.
