“Sierra,” he says, voice rough, “I didn’t want… this isn’t how I wanted this to go.”
I force my eyes to the floor. “Neither did I.”
The words hang between us heavy and honest and past saving.
Griff laughs once, humorless. “You hear that? That’s what’s left when someone doesn’t choose you.”
“Enough,” I whisper, voice thin. “Please.”
Griff swears under his breath, runs a hand through his hair, and looks away like he’s trying to hold himself together.
Jace steps forward a fraction, hands still buried in his pockets. “She’s right. We don’t need to do this.”
“You alreadydidthis,” Griff fires back.
Knox steps closer, not touching anyone, but placing himself directly between the two men now, calm and immovable as a wall. His presence sucks the fuse right out of the room.
“Griff,” he says quietly, “help her. That’s why we’re here.”
Griff’s jaw twitches, but eventually he nods once, a clipped, reluctant surrender.
He turns toward the hallway.
Knox doesn’t move yet. He stands there with me for another breath, eyes searching mine. Soft. Careful. Present in a way I’ve never had from anyone but him.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
The question isn’t light. It’s weighted. It sees straight through me.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
He gives me a look that says he knows it. But he lets it go. He turns, moving toward the boxes like he’s been carrying my weight long before today.
Jace lingers behind, one hand braced on the doorframe. “Sierra…”
I stop.
He doesn’t step closer. Doesn’t reach for me. He just stands there in the doorway of the life we triedso damn hardto build.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
For what?
For not choosing me?
For choosing too late?
For something neither of us could fix?
For the thing I haven’t admitted to anyone, not even myself?
The ache presses hard against my ribs. “I know,” I whisper.
It’s all I can give and it's all he can take.
Behind us, Griff’s voice booms from the hall. “Who taped this box? A blind toddler?”
Knox laughs under his breath. It’s soft. Warm. A little like sunlight.
