I glance toward the window facing the driveway, where I see a soft glow spilling from Abigail’s bedroom window.
She sees things.
Not in a way that feels invasive, but more like she just notices.Everything. She’s like Lawson that way. Always able to see the real stuff. The cracks I’ve so desperately tried to fill. The silence between the smiles.
She laughs at my jokes, but she doesn’tneedthem.
And that… scares me a little.
Because I think, if I let her, she’d see the parts of me I keep hidden under charm and witty counters. I think, without even knowing it, she sees the kid who still worries he’s a burden. The man who stays up late so no one catches him being anything but fine.
The fire pops louder, snapping me back.
Today went sideways fast. Violence always does. And it never asks permission before dragging the past up with it. Seeing those Coates assholes bleeding in the alley felt like justice. But it also reminded me of how easily things break. How fast lines get crossed.
Violence has a way of sticking with you. Even when it saves you.
Because that’s the thing, isn’t it?
I was pulled out of hell with fists and blood and men who loved me enough to break another man to pieces. And somehow, even still, that makes it feel like I forfeited the right to want anything soft afterward.
Draining the last of my whiskey, I push to my feet, straightening the couch cushions out of habit. Proof, I guess,that some part of me still believes if I keep this neat enough, quiet enough, I won’t be a problem.
I grab my guitar from where it leans against the wall. But I don’t play it. I just rest my hand against the worn wood, grounding myself in something familiar and quiet. Music has always been one of those parts of me that stayed gentle in its purest form. No forced smiles. No witty remarks to fill the silence. Just the melody of life’s most beautiful songs flowing through my fingertips and out of my lips.
One day, maybe, I’ll play something just for her.
Something that isn’t loud.
Something that doesn’t boast.
Something that makes her look at me the way she did on that stage last night—like I’m more than the punchline, more than the guy who survived because someone else swung first.
But not tonight.
Tonight, it’s enough to know we’re all still here. Still breathing. Still choosing each other—even when it’s messy, and complicated, and terrifying as hell.
And maybe… maybe that counts as softness too.
Chapter thirty-five
Abigail
Isitatthesmallkitchen table in the guesthouse with my mug cradled between both hands, watching the stream curl toward the ceiling. My thoughts keep circling back to Jasper.
To the look in his eyes in that alley. Then again in the bathroom. The way his hands shook as he held Ethan against the wall, then shook for an entirely different reason as he held me. The way his anger felt like a storm that had nowhere to go but inward. I understand that kind of rage. I’ve lived inside it. I know how terrifying it is to wish such violence upon another person. However, it’s an entirely different thing to be behind the hands that have dealt it.
There’s a new danger now. New lines crossed.
But it’s different this time.
Before, danger wore the faces of the men around me. It lived in their hands, their voices, their entitlement. It was aimed directly at me.
This time?
The men around me would burn the world down before letting danger touch me.
A knock lands at the door, ripping me from my thoughts.
