"I could ask you the same thing."
"I'm used to it."
"That's not an answer."
He almost smiles. "No. I guess it's not."
The breeze picks up, carrying the scent of salt and something floral—the planters near the building, maybe. I shiver, and Riot notices immediately.
"Here." He's already shrugging out of a jacket I didn't notice him holding—leather, worn soft, draped over the railing beside him. He settles it around my shoulders without asking permission.
The leather is warm from his body. It smells like him—gunpowder and soap and something underneath that I'm starting to associate with safety.
"Thanks."
"Can't have you freezing to death after I went to all that trouble keeping you alive."
The joke lands softly. We're both too tired for real banter.
"Jon." His name feels natural now. More real than Riot, which is a costume he wears. "You don't have to stay out here with me. If you need to sleep?—"
"I don't want to sleep." He turns to face me, finally. His eyes are tired but alert, searching my face for something I can't name. "I want to be here. With you."
The words settle between us. Simple. True.
"Okay," I say. "Then stay."
He turns back to the ocean. The silence stretches, but it's not uncomfortable. It's the silence of two people who don't need to fill the space with noise.
"I meant what I said earlier," he says eventually. “I’d like to take you out.”
“I’d like that."
“Fair warning, though. I’m not easy. I've got baggage that would fill a cargo plane. Nightmares. Walls. A history of pushing people away before they can get close enough to matter."
I consider this. "Have you ever managed eighteen five-year-olds on finger painting day?"
He blinks. "What?"
"Finger painting day. Eighteen kids. Three colors of paint, which somehow become twelve colors of paint because they mix everything together. One kid eats the blue. Another dumps the red in someone's hair. A third has a meltdown because his tree doesn't look like a tree, and meanwhile you've got paint on the ceiling—the ceiling—and no one can explain how it got there."
He's staring at me like I've lost my mind.
"My point is," I continue, "I handle chaos every day. I'm not scared of complicated."
A laugh escapes him—surprised, genuine. "You're comparing my psychological damage to kindergarten arts and crafts?"
"I'm saying I've seen worse."
"That's..." He shakes his head, but he's smiling. "That's either the most reassuring thing anyone's ever said to me or deeply insulting."
"Can't it be both?"
The smile reaches his eyes this time. "Yeah. I think it can."
He turns to look at the water again. When he speaks, his voice is quieter.
"What I told you in the car. About Joey. About Deacon." He pauses, his hands tightening on the railing. "What I told you... it’s the truth. The whole, ugly thing. I’ve never told anyone that version. Not CJ, not the guys on the team. Everyone else gets the sanitized report or the dark humor that buries the lead."
