"I'd be more excited if you'd tell me what's really going on with you," he states bluntly, no preamble.
"Nothing's going on?—"
"Valentina." He says my name like he's tired, like he's done with the lies and deflections. "I've known you for months. I know when something's wrong. I can read you. And something has been very wrong since I woke up. You barely sleep. You jump atevery sound. You won't talk about what happened at the Vipers. You're having panic attacks—don't deny it, I saw you practically run out of here."
I look down at my Gatorade, can't meet his eyes, watching condensation drip down the plastic bottle. "I'm just tired. That's all."
"Is it the Vipers? Talia? Something they said to you?"
Yes. All of the above.But I can't tell him that.
"It's nothing," I insist, the lie tasting bitter. "I'm just—I'm glad you're okay. That's all that matters."
He's quiet for a long moment, long enough that I finally risk looking up. His expression is soft but determined. "Come here."
I climb back onto the bed and he wraps his arms around me, pulls me against his chest with more strength than he should have. His heartbeat is steady and strong beneath my ear, his warmth seeping into me.
"Whatever it is," he murmurs into my hair, breath warm against my scalp, "we'll figure it out. Together. You don't have to carry it alone. Whatever burden you're holding, let me help."
The words make my throat tight, make tears prick behind my eyes that I refuse to let fall. Because I do have to carry it alone. Because telling him means admitting I killed his brother. Means watching whatever he feels for me die in real time. Means losing this—his arms around me, his heartbeat against my cheek, the safety I feel when he holds me.
So I just hold on tighter and let him think I'm okay.
Let him think two days from now, when he goes home, everything will go back to normal.
Even though I know—deep in my bones, with absolute certainty—that nothing will ever be normal again.
5
ISAIAH
The safe houseis thirty minutes outside the city, tucked into the hills where the roads turn narrow and winding. It's one of Xavier's contingency properties—a four-bedroom ranch-style house with reinforced doors, security cameras, and sight lines that let you see anyone coming from half a mile away. Perfect for recovery when the compound is too chaotic, too exposed, too full of people asking questions.
I pull the truck into the gravel driveway at just past three in the afternoon. The discharge process took six hours—paperwork, medication instructions, physical therapy consultations, a wheelchair that Xavier stared at like it was a prison sentence. Valentina signed most of the forms since she's been listed as his medical proxy. Her hand shook the entire time.
"Home sweet home," I announce, killing the engine.
Xavier's awake in the passenger seat but groggy, pain medication making his eyes heavy. He's been quiet the whole drive, staring out the window at passing scenery like he's memorizing a world he thought he'd never see again.
Valentina climbs out of the back seat immediately, moving around to Xavier's door before I can get there. She's been like this all week—hypervigilant, hovering, unable to sit still for more than five minutes. Right now she's wearing one of my hoodies again, the sleeves rolled up multiple times, and Xavier's Raiders jacket over it. Like she's trying to wrap herself in both of us.
"I've got him," I tell her, but she's already opening the door, reaching for Xavier's arm.
"I can help?—"
"Val." I keep my voice gentle but firm. "I've got him. Can you grab the wheelchair from the back?"
She hesitates, clearly wanting to argue, then nods and moves to the truck bed. I watch her struggle with the folded wheelchair for a second before she figures out the release mechanism.
"I fucking hate that thing," Xavier mutters, voice rough.
"I know," I reply, sliding my arm under his shoulders. "But it's temporary. Doctor said with PT, you might be walking with a cane in six months."
"Might."
"Better than definitely not," I counter. "On three. One, two?—"
I lift and Xavier grits his teeth but doesn't make a sound as I help him pivot out of the truck. His legs are dead weight, useless, and I can feel how much he hates needing help. How much it costs him to accept it.
