He nods once and heads to the tiny kitchenette tucked in the corner of the flat. I watch him open the fridge, pull out leftovers and a half loaf of bread. He’s not as big as I remember, like all things seem much bigger when you’re a child. But he’s still hard muscle and quiet power. His black t-shirt stretches across his chest, sleeves hugging thick biceps inked in dark lines. His jaw’s rough with stubble, and his black hair is shorter than it used tobe, but still messy, reaching his eyes. His beautiful storm-grey eyes haven’t changed at all. Only now they make my stomach flutter.
He studies me for a moment. Not in the way Nigel does—the kind of look that makes my skin crawl. Hayden’s gaze is different. Quietly assessing and protective.
I don’t remember the last time someone took care of me—probably my brother before he got sent down.
Hayden sets a plate of food in front of me at the small table. “It’s just leftover spaghetti, but it’ll fill you up.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, sliding into the seat.
He nods again but doesn’t sit with me. Just leans against the counter like he’s carved from the wall, arms folded, watching with quiet intensity as I take the first bite.
I try not to shovel it down, but it’s hard. I didn’t realise how hungry I was until now.
After a few minutes, I glance up. “I didn’t mean to show up so late.”
“You came when you could.” His voice is low, gravelled. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you came. You did good finding your way to me. You’re safe now, Sunshine. ”
I blink at the praise. I’m not used to it.
He clears his throat and glances away, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re not as scary as I remember.”
One brow lifts. “That so?”
I nod, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “When I was little, you were like this grumpy mountain in black leather. Oak used to tell me not to bother you or you'd growl.”
He smirks faintly. “I did growl. Still do.”
“You didn’t really talk to me back then.”
“I didn’t talk to anyone back then. Still don’t. Besides, what would I say to a nine-year-old?”
I laugh—an actual laugh. It bubbles up unexpectedly, unfamiliar in my throat.
He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile. “I remember you used to sing in the garage when you thought no one was listening.”
My face heats. “Oh, how embarrassing?”
“Not embarrassing. Your voice was better than any skylark. It always lifted everyone’s mood.” He turns towards the sink, washing the few pots there, but I catch the ghost of a smile still clinging to his lips. “Do you still sing?”
I look down with a sigh and an emptiness in my chest as I pull the sleeves of my hoodie over my hands. “There’s nothing to sing about now.”
He glances over at an old dressing table near his bed, with a small photo frame—slightly dusty, half tucked behind an empty bottle of liquor. “I know the feeling.”
A younger girl. Blonde. Soft smile. Same eyes as Hayden.
“Who’s that?” I ask quietly, nodding towards it.
His shoulders stiffen just a little. He walks over, picks up the frame, brushes the glass with his thumb.
“My sister. Jodie.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“She was.”
I sit a little straighter. “Was?”
