Link points at me with the cap of his water bottle, his expression surprisingly earnest. “Exactly. You get to choose what happens next. Not him. You.”
Korbyn reaches up and squeezes my hand. “If you decide to try again, to take it slow, or to walk away, know we are here for you. No questions asked.”
Shiloh nods as Rowan gives a small grunt of agreement. Link offers a crooked, soft smile that’s so un-Link it almost knocks the air out of me.
“You’re our girl,” he says simply. “We’ve got you.”
The warmth of it hits hard. I’m still trying to breathe through it when the door swings open, and Lucian steps inside.
His eyes sweep the room, landing on me for a heartbeat before he shifts into business mode. “Everyone good?”
Link lifts his water bottle in a half-salute, tone light but edged. “Peachy.”
Lucian’s jaw ticks. “Since you’re all here, I want to tell you about an update I got from Orion.”
And just like that, the air shifts again.
He tells us about the call—the hooded figure, the footage, the backpack, the possibility that it was James. Every word lands like a stone in my stomach. He asks if anyone has any questions or comments, and no one pushes for details. I don’t think any of us wants any more.
Lucian turns toward Rowan and Korbyn. “Have either of you heard anything from James?”
Rowan shakes his head immediately. “No.”
Korbyn hesitates before echoing him. “Nothing.” The single word lands, and every head turns. “It’s just weird, healwaysreaches out to gloat. Especially when he thinks he’s gotten under someone’s skin.”
Shiloh’s brows draw together. “What do you mean by ‘gloat’?”
“I mean, he should’ve called by now. Or texted. Or… something.” Her voice thins, barely above a whisper. “Him being quiet? That’s not good. That means he’s planning something worse.”
A cold ripple moves through the room.
Lucian’s jaw tightens. “We’re not letting anything happen to you. Any of you.”
* * *
My pulse quickens, a steady, insistent rhythm that moves from my ribs up into my throat until it feels like the only sound in the car.
The memories don’t arrive as flashes so much as a slow tide, folding over one another until the edges of the hurt and the edges of the wanting blur; there is warmth threaded through the ache, and it makes the present feel both heavier and more possible. He had a way of making ordinary things feel private and sacred: the quiet ritual of him clearing the plates while I perched on the counter, the small, exacting ways he learned what made me laugh, the way his hands remembered me even when his mouth would not speak. Those moments are not gone; they live under my skin, patient and precise, and tonight they press against whatever armor I’ve built until something gives.
I am not naive about how he acted when he ended things. I remember the silence that followed, the months that taught me how to breathe around an absence, the nights I convinced myself I could be whole without him. That history is a ledger I will not erase.
But there is also a ledger of tenderness, of the kind of attention that arrives without fanfare and settles into the smallarchitecture of a life. Standing at the edge, I feel a decision forming that is neither surrender nor denial; it is a deliberate, careful opening.
He will have to earn my trust back. It’s not a thing I can easily hand over twice. I will keep my boundaries like a map, clear and visible, and I won’t confuse longing for readiness. But I need to stop pretending the part of me that loved him didn’t survive the fall. That part is stubborn and true, and it has a voice I can’t ignore.
I let the thought settle in me like a small, dangerous seed: I want to try. The future feels fragile in the way new glass does, like it could be beautiful, or it could cut. I am choosing to hold it anyway, to see whether what he offers now is the same hollow echo or something rebuilt with intention. My breath evens out a fraction as the road hums on. The idea of moving forward with him feels less like a trap and more like a choice I am willing to make on my own terms.
Lucian parks the car, and I realize we’ve made it the entire drive without talking. By the time we make it up to the room, my breathing is shallow again, and my heart feels like it’s about to fall out of my chest.
The room door closes behind us with a soft click that sounds louder than it should. The lights are dim, the city glittering through the window like a promise and a dare. He drops his bag by the armchair, and for a moment we just stand there, two people who have rehearsed this silence in different ways.
I don’t want to be theatrical, or hand him a speech or a list of conditions like a contract. I want to be honest, raw in the way that matters. So I let the quiet do the work until it’s mine to break.
“I want to try,” I tell him. The words land between us like a careful offering.
“Try what?” His voice is cautious and hopeful, as if he’s afraid to break whatever fragile thing we’ve just set down between us.
“Us,” I say, and the single syllable carries everything I haven’t let myself admit. “Not the version that picked up where it left off, because that version is broken. I don’t want a reset that pretends the damage never happened. I want to see if we can build something that lasts this time—if you can be the man who shows up when it’s inconvenient, who keeps the promises he makes in private, who remembers the small things without me asking.”
