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Sometimes when shit feels too good to be true, it’s because it is.

I’m sitting here half-arguing with Cece about finally remodeling the damn time warp of a sheriff station—her rolling her eyes, me pretending I give a shit about backsplash—when the bell above the front door chimes. Just that soft jingle, the one I’ve heard a thousand times, and suddenly my whole body goes still.

Rue walks in.

Whoomph! Just like that, it’s like someone sucks all the air right out of the room.

The words stall on my tongue. Cece’s voice fades out. Because I know. I fucking know.

The way her face is set, the tension in her jaw, the hesitation in her steps—it’s all written there, plain as day. It’s the same one I’ve seen on parents too late to stop the wreck, on witnesses before they testify, on people who’ve carried bad news in their guts so long they don’t know where they end and the grief begins.

Whatever she’s carrying, whatever the hell’s about to come out of her mouth, it’s not just going to shift the ground beneath me. It’s going to rip my entire world apart at the seams.

My heart stutters, chest tightening like a vise. I meet Rue’s eyes, desperate for anything but the truth I already feel crawling beneath my skin.

“Tell me.”

She swallows, voice fragile as she finally says it, “Dallas’s father…he’s been found. He’s petitioned for custody.”

The room feels like it’s closing in, my breath shallow and ragged, the walls pressing closer with every heartbeat. The air thickens with dread until I can’t hold it in anymore. I snap, voice raw and fierce, “Well, he can’t fucking have him.”

I dig my nails into the edge of the desk, the rough wood biting into my skin as hot tears sting the back of my eyes, blurring the world. This isn’t just a fight over custody—it’s a reckoning, an exposed wound that bleeds straight through to my soul.

“I’m so sorry, Henry,” Rue whispers, her voice barely audible, heavy with the weight of a truth no one wanted to hear.

All I want is to scream it—to shout that Dallas belongs here, that he’s mine, now and always. But the silence is a crushing weight, swallowing every word before it even forms.

Because sometimes the hardest battle isn’t in claiming what you want—it’s in facing the shattering loss you never saw coming.

Chapter Thirty-Three

FUCK BIOLOGY

LOUISIANA

I pull into the driveway just after noon, the crisp fall air sharp against my skin, carrying the scent of damp earth and burning leaves. Groceries weigh heavy in my arms, the chill making my breath catch in little puffs as I walk inside. Everyone knows I can’t fucking cook, but I handle the shopping and the dishes. Fair trade, right? I drop the bags by the door with a satisfied smirk; who the hell makes more than one trip?

I glance out the back window and spot Henry sitting on the wooden steps, elbows resting heavily on his knees, head bowed low like he’s carrying the weight of the world. At first, I think he’s just lost in thought, quiet and still. His broad shoulders don’t move much—just the kind of still that makes you think he’s thinking through a problem.

I push the door open and drop down beside him, nudging his leg with mine. “Well, isn’t this a nice surprise, Sheriff.” My voice sounds too light, too casual, like I’m trying to break through something I can’t see yet.

Then I notice it—the subtle hitch in his breath, the way his shoulders start to tremble, almost imperceptibly at first, then a little more. A single tear slips from beneath his hat, trailing down his cheek and soaking into the collar of his shirt. It’s slow, silent, and it catches me off guard like a punch to the gut.

I reach out with a trembling hand and gently lift his sunglasses off, revealing eyes glazed with raw, unfiltered pain. I’ve seen Henry misty-eyed before—hell, I’ve seen that stubborn man hold back tears—but never like this. Never so broken, so exposed.

My breath catches, and it feels like the air between us thickens with something heavy and electric, a rawness so real it hurts to even look. The man who’s been my rock, my unbreakable shield, is unraveling right in front of me.

Without thinking, my hand slides over his trembling back, fingers pressing slow, steady circles, trying to anchor him—to tell him without words that I’m here, that I’ve got him. “Talk to me, Henny,” I whisper, voice rough with something fierce and aching I can’t quite name.

He turns to me, slow like it hurts, and when his hazel eyes meet mine, they’re bloodshot and brimming with a kind of sorrow I’ve never seen on his face before. The pain carved into them has me clutching the back of his shirt tight in my fist, trying to brace myself for whatever the hell’s coming.

“Louisiana—” He says my name like it hurts him, voice splitting down the middle, raw and broken.

The sound of it stops me cold.

I don’t breathe. My heart is pounding, hard and uneven, as if it knows what’s coming before I do. My hand tightens on his back, knuckles white through the soft cotton of his shirt. I want to shake him, demand he spit it out, but I can’t. The weight in the air is suffocating, and for a second, I swear I can feel his heartbreak pulsing beneath my fingertips.

Henry takes a breath, but it’s jagged and thin, like it’s tearing him apart to hold himself together. His hazel eyes—usually sharp and steady—are glassy when they find mine.