I raise a brow.“Don’t.”
She glares.“I hate when you’re right, but I’ll work on it.Harvey is helping me find a therapist.”She smiles.“Just don’t get on my case and tease me, okay?”
“I’ll try,” I say, smiling a little.“But you love me anyway.”
Her eyes soften, and for a second she looks like the girl I met at camp—sunshine with teeth, brave in ways that scared me.
“I do,” she whispers.
The words land between us like a promise.
And somewhere outside this room, Alberto Montoya Navarro Wade is probably sitting in the dark with his own thoughts, telling himself he’s fine, telling himself he doesn’t need anyone, telling himself family is just another way to get hurt.
I don’t know how to fix everything I broke.
But I know I have to prove to him that I love him and he belongs.
Vesper’s fingers curl around mine, holding my hand.
“Tomorrow,” she says, voice quiet but certain, “we start doing this differently.”
I nod.“Tomorrow.”
She exhales, eyes fluttering closed.Exhaustion pulls at her fast.
Before sleep takes her, she murmurs, almost too soft to hear, “Don’t let him leave us.”
The request hits me like a vow.
“I won’t,” I whisper back.“Not again.”
ChapterThirty-Three
Alberto
I’ve stopped pucks flying at my face at ninety miles an hour, but a closed bedroom door might actually be the thing that breaks me.
The worst part isn’t that Callaway is in her bed—it’s that a part of me wants to be there too.With them.
Listen, I’m not jealous of him.Not really.
I just feel ...left out.
Which is a pathetic thing to admit for a grown man who gets paid to stare down breakaways and keep his pulse from doing stupid things.I’m supposed to be disciplined.Contained.Built for pressure.
And yet here I am, standing in the living room like a pathetic man, trying to listen to the low murmur of voices behind Vesper’s door, and feeling something ugly and hot crawl up my spine.
What happened to being a fucking family?
I shouldn’t be surprised that I’m left out while those two are clinging to each other, sharing space like it’s easy.Like the world hasn’t spent years teaching us that closeness comes with a price tag.
This definitely feels like a “fuck you, Alberto.”
Which, honestly, I should be used to by now.
All my life, it’s been a “fuck you.”From my parents dying, to the foster system, my dad’s family, and ...well, my uncle tried, but he was absent.The man liked his singlehood.He didn’t care much about having a family life.He just took me in because his sister’s child needed a home.
In adulthood, it’s been the teams.They try to chew me up and spit me out and say, “It’s nothing personal, it’s the game.”
