“You don’t know that.” I pull my arm back, not harshly, but enough. “The night of the wedding—when the three of us were together—I felt it. The way Chris kept coming back to me. Checking in. Like I was his anchor point whenever things got intense between you two.” I shake my head. “Maybe if I’d been there, he would have had something to hold onto. Someone to keep him present.”
“Nina—”
“I’m not saying it’s your fault for not waking me. I’m saying I hate that I wasn’t there.” My voice cracks. I turn back to the window.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then Wyatt moves to stand beside me, his shoulder brushing mine.
“I want to be that for him too.” His voice is quiet. Raw. “Not because I don’t want you there—I do. But you said something before your surgery. About Chris and me being each other’s boyfriends, not just yours. And I want that. I’ve been falling for him since the wedding. Maybe since he came home, if I’m being honest.” He exhales. “Watching him fight so hard to reintegrate, to rebuild himself after everything—I’ve never seen anyone work that hard to come back to life. And part of me thought if I could just be steady enough, patient enough, I could be someone he’d hold onto too.”
I turn to look at him. “But?”
“But last night I failed him.” The words come out rough. “I saw him hesitate and I didn’t stop us.” He exhales. “And even if I’d done everything right—I don’t know if he can stay present with me. I don’t know if that’s because of what Vicente did to him, or because of who I am, or?—”
“Because you’re a man?”
He shakes his head slowly. “Because I’m not you.”
The words hang there. Not jealousy—something sadder. The fear that we’ll only ever work in one configuration. That he’ll always need me as a bridge to reach Chris fully.
“Wyatt.” I take his hand. “Last night was a trauma response. You both made choices that led there—him pushing through a limit he’d stated, you not stopping after you saw him falter. That doesn’t make either of you villains. It makes you two people who didn’t fully understand what they were walking into.”
“Then why won’t he answer the phone?”
“Because he thinks he hurt you. Because shame makes people hide.” I squeeze his hand. “Not because you weren’t enough.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, then nods. His hand stays in mine.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out. Unknown number—but I recognize the format. Tatiana’s burner.
TATIANA: Found him. He’s in bad shape. Don’t come looking—I’ll handle it. Will update when I can.
I show Wyatt the screen. His face goes pale.
Neither of us says anything. There’s nothing to say.
45
Chris
The ceiling is wrong.
That’s the first thing I register. Water stains spreading across acoustic tile like a disease map. Not Nina’s smooth plaster. Not my Culver City suite’s textured beige. Somewhere else. Somewhere?—
Pain arrives next. A full-body inventory that takes too long to complete: ribs screaming when I breathe, knuckles swollen and split, something wrong with my left eye that makes half the room swim when I try to focus. The inside of my mouth tastes like blood and bourbon.
I try to sit up. Mistake. The room tilts violently sideways and my stomach lurches in response.
“Easy.” A woman’s voice, familiar, deeply accented. “You’ll puke on my shoes and I’ll make you regret it.”
Boots. Black leather, practical heel, scuffed at the toe. They step into my field of vision and stop. I follow them up: dark jeans, leather jacket, arms crossed. Tatiana’s face comes into focus. She crouches, studying me with the same detachment she brings to threat assessment.
“There he is,” she says. “America’s finest.”
“Where—” My voice comes out like gravel dragged across broken glass. I try again. “Where am I?”
“Motel on Sepulveda. Cash only, no questions asked.” She tilts her head, cataloging damage. “You don’t remember getting here.”
