I slowly turn the corner into Jace’s street. He stands on the curb, backpack hanging off one shoulder—the same beat-up bag he takes to school every day. Its black fabric faded to gray in spots, with a zipper that’s half busted, so it never fully closes.
I’ve watched him struggle with that zipper more times than I care to admit. Seen him force it shut with stubborn, irritated fingers, like he’s refusing to admit it’s beyond fixing.
But it’s the fucking plastic bag in his other hand that makes my chest tighten.
A flimsy grocery store bag, handles stretched thin, filled with whatever he could grab. Everything he owns that matters apparently fits into a plastic bag.
A raw, burning anger churns in my stomach, because I hate that he lives this way. Hate that no one ever truly cared about him enough to pay attention. I hate how little the world ever provided for him. Not the big things, but the small details. He deserves a real bag, not some junk from a checkout line.
The tires brush the curb as I come to a stop.
The passenger door swings open, and a wave of cold air washes over me, as he slides in beside me.
The backpack drops first, and he arranges it between his feet, adjusting it until it sits upright between his knees. He then places the plastic bag on top of it, gentle until it balances there, before he closes the door.
For a moment, we just sit there, breathing the same air.
He reaches for the seatbelt and pulls it across his chest. The click echoes in the small space before his eyes meet mine. They move over my face. He’s looking for the cracks, for the pain the hospital carved out of me.
“How is he?” he asks, voice low, stripped of its usual shit-talking edge. It’s careful and the tenderness of it sends a splinter of something painful through my chest.
I have to swallow past the lump in my throat.
The words are like acid on my tongue. “No change.”
A muscle tenses in Jace’s jaw. He gives a quick, firm nod, his eyes dropping to the steering wheel for a moment before snapping back to me.
“That doesn’t mean it’s bad,” he says, his voice a low anchor in the swirling chaos of my mind.
It’s not some bullshit platitude. He doesn’t lie. He doesn’t offer false hope. He just states a fact—something solid for me to hold onto so I don’t completely fall apart.
“I know,” I whisper, the sound barely there.
I shift the car into drive and pull away from the curb.
The street whizzes by us in a blur of motion. Fancy houses with manicured lawns and perfect shutters blend together.
Beside me, Jace rests his forearms on his thighs, hands loose and open between his knees. Relaxed, but still carrying that quiet awareness he never fully shuts off.
He smells the way he always does. It’s something steady and grounding that settles deep in my chest and makes the noise in my head quiet for the first time all day. It’s almost like safety, which is a joke within itself because Jace Cooper isn’t safe. He’s reckless and sharp-edged, all hard angles and brutal honesty. He’s built to survive things most people never have to face, forged in the kind of shit that breaks others.
But sitting here beside me, quiet and present, he feels steady in a way nothing else does right now. Solid. Unshakable. Like ananchor in the middle of a storm I can’t control. He’s grounding me without even trying, without saying a word, and I have no idea what to do about that.
I keep my eyes on the road, but I am aware of the weight of his stare on my face.
“You don’t have to be okay,” he says finally.
His voice is low and rough but there’s something gentle beneath it. Something that breaks through what I’ve been trying to hold together all day.
Pressure builds behind my eyes. “I know.”
His hand moves then. Slow and hesitant in a way that’s so unlike him it makes my chest hurt. He reaches across the center console and lightly rests his fingers over mine, where they’re white-knuckling the steering wheel. His thumb brushes my skin once, a small, stroke—careful and tentative, like the touch given to something you’re afraid might shatter. “I’m here, Bells,” he says softly.
I glance at him, and he’s already looking back at me. His eyes aren’t guarded like they usually are. There’s no cocky smirk, no walls, no distance. It’s just him. Raw and unfiltered.
He lifts my hand from the wheel, and presses it against his chest for a moment. Right over his heart. Letting me sense the consistent pulsing under my hand.
The gesture is brief. It’s over before I can fully process it, but it still unravels threads I didn’t know were holding me together.
