The ache of it spreads through my chest. For Chris, who carried this alone. For Wyatt, who knew and couldn’t tell me. For myself, walking blind into a room with the architect of my boyfriend’s trauma.
I could have helped. If he’d trusted me, I could have helped him.
The bedroom door is closed. Nikita’s warm weight is curled against my hip, purring softly. The house is quiet in a way that tells me at least one of the men is awake. There’s a faint smell of coffee drifting from somewhere.
I check my phone. 8:47 AM. No messages.
The meds did their job: I slept hard and deep, the kind of unconsciousness that leaves you disoriented when you surface. But the quiet feels wrong. Too still. Too careful. And underneath the grogginess, the hair on the back of my neck is prickling.
I push myself upright. Nikita chirps in protest but doesn’t move.
“I know,” I murmur, scratching behind her ears. “But I need to check on them.”
On him. The singular slips through before I can stop it. Because the ache in my chest isn’t just about what I learned last night. It’s about the look on Chris’s face when we got in the car, the way he was already retreating somewhere I couldn’t follow.
I need to see that he’s okay.
The living room is empty. So is the kitchen, though there’s a half-full pot of coffee on the counter and a single mug beside it. I follow the faint sound of movement to the back patio and slide open the glass door.
The morning hits me in layers: the bright slant of November sun, the surprising warmth already building toward what will probably be an eighty-degree day. Past the hedge that borders the patio, the hillside drops away toward the city. The view isn’t as dramatic as from the Flores compound, but still enough to make you pause. The recent rains have done their work: the scrubby browns of summer have softened into shades of green, more alive. Even the air smells different, cleaner, like the basin finally exhaled.
The little citrus tree in the corner catches my eye. I’ve been assuming it was a lime for months, but the fruit is starting to turn, blushing orange at the edges. Tangerines. I’ve been living here since October and I’m only now noticing.
Wyatt is standing at the railing, staring at none of it.
He’s wearing a turtleneck.
It’s seventy-two degrees outside.
My stomach drops. I catalog the details automatically: the rigid set of his shoulders, the way he’s gripping the railing like it’s the only thing holding him upright. The circles under his eyes visible even in profile. He hasn’t slept.
“Morning,” I say, and watch him flinch before he turns.
“Hey.” His voice is rough. Scraped raw. “Didn’t hear you get up. How are you feeling?”
He looks wrecked. Not just tired—hollowed out, the way you look after a night spent staring into an abyss.
But he’s holding himself like a man bracing for impact, and I’ve been a therapist long enough to know that sometimes comfort feels like an attack when you’re that wound up.
“Where’s Chris?”
Wyatt’s jaw tightens. His shoulders climb half an inch toward his ears.
I study him. The careful distance he’s maintaining. The turtleneck pulled up to his chin in weather that doesn’t warrant it. The way his hand drifts toward his throat and then stops, like he’s catching himself.
“Wyatt.”
“Nina—”
I step closer and he takes a half-step back. My chest constricts. He’s never retreated from me before. “Something happened last night. After I went to bed.”
“You were exhausted. You needed rest.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He looks away. His throat works beneath the fabric, and I catch the slightest wince. There and gone.
“We should go inside,” he says. “You shouldn’t be standing this long.”
