I trace the lines with a thumb that doesn’t stop trembling. Memory comes like a reflex. Alex smiling over a busted engine, the crease at the side of his eye when he was about to tell a joke. The way he used to call me “Vic” when he was too tired to be formal. The way his hands smelled of grease and cigarettes and home.
The funeral scene plays in reverse. Me standing at the edge of the cemetery, him lowered into the ground, and the silence that followed. I promised him I’d keep the numbers clean. I promised him that no one would use his name as a shovel. Here I am, watching his name move through dirty money like I didn’t promise to do better.
A noise jars me, soft footsteps near the door. I pull my eyes away from the ledger like I’m ashamed of being caught reading it in the dark. Carter moves with a quietpeople don’t see coming, his shadow cuts across the doorway.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low enough to be private in the hush.
“Fine.” I don’t sound fine. He knows this, and instead of pressing, he crosses the room and sits on the edge of the couch, boots whispering against the hardwood floor.
“Want me to watch the perimeter?” Carter offers.
“No,” I say too quickly. “I want you here.”
He looks at me, surprised. “Because of the shelter?”
“Because of you.” The confession is small and jagged. I hate sounding needy. I hate that it’s true.
He looks at my face, noticing the hard lines where grief lives. “You shouldn’t carry it alone.”
“I don’t want you to carry it.” I keep looking at the ledger as if I keep my face down, the past won’t look back. “I want you to help close the books.”
Carter reaches out and rests a warm, calloused hand on my forearm. It feels like both a promise and a threat.
We sit here, side by side, listening to the shelter breathe. Around midnight, Carter gets up, and I don’t ask where he’s going.
I hear one of the volunteers stirring, and I walk quietly down the hall to watch as they soothe a child with a fever. The scent of eucalyptus wipes lingers in the air. I watch the little boy’s chest rise and fall, and my ribs feel like they’re pressing against an empty space.
When grief hits properly, it crashes like a tide, sudden and soaked to the bone, impossible to outrun. I find my boots by the door, slip them on, and step outside. I tellmyself I’m getting fresh air, but really, I’m escaping the softness that makes me think of Alex.
The night is thick with fog and tension, and the coastal wind feels cool against my skin. Beyond the shelter, the training yard glows under a single floodlight. Carter is there, shirt off, muscles shadowed and moving in a steady rhythm. The sound of leather hitting the heavy bag echoes across the backyard. Sweat beads down his skin and catches the light. He moves like someone who understands violence and keeps it under control.
For a moment, I just watch him. The ache under my ribs from seeing him move, the same way Alex used to move when he did the same thing. Different, yet the same kind of focus that used to make me feel like the world was organized.
He pauses, sees me, and his expression softens. He nods and returns to the bag. We stay silent. We don’t have to say anything.
The night drags on. The past drags with it a heavy, familiar weight. I lie awake in the office, ledger on my chest, the shelter murmuring like a sea. At some point, Carter’s footsteps, muffled, pass the door. I hear the quiet thunk of dumbbells. The methodical thud is a metronome that keeps me honest.
I tell myself all the things that make sense. Carter’s here for protection, for leads, for the math. I tell myself I’m only watching him because I can’t afford another lie.
Mostly, I don’t believe any of it in the raw hours, but the body keeps time through small comforts, a hot coffeein the morning, a blanket folded across a cot, a hand that doesn’t flinch when the past bleeds into the present.
By the time dawn casts a pale light over the yard, I’m fueled by caffeine and something darker. I didn’t sleep much, but that’s nothing new. The compound lies in a thin hush. The shelter’s lights burn low in the distance, warm against the gray.
The world acts like it’s steady, but the night doesn’t go away that easily. It settles in the quiet realization that safety isn’t just one thing. For him, maybe it’s four walls and a locked door. For me, it’s proximity. Control. The illusion that I can keep what matters close enough so I won’t lose it.
I hate that I want to trust Carter. I hate even more that trust is already taking root in my mind.
I fold the ledger shut, fingers tracing Alex’s name, and for the first time in a long time, I feel direction.
We have work to do. The Vultures don’t rest. Neither will we.
I’m halfway through my second cup of coffee when Carter walks into the clubhouse, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt, salt, gun oil, and clean soap clinging to him like a second skin. The air still carries last night’s tension along with coffee grounds and leather.
He smells like exertion and discipline.
“Morning,” he says, voice low, breath still controlled despite the workout.
“Barely,” I answer without looking up, though I’m watching every movement in the reflection of the window. Therhythm of his breathing. The way his hands flex once before going still.
