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Dallas is ours.

That boy’s laughter lives in this house. His socks are still in the damn dryer. His cereal bowl is in the sink. He doesn’t just live here—he belongs here.

And someone thinks they can take him?

My chest convulses, a silent scream tearing through my ribs. I curl tighter, like if I make myself small enough, the pain won’t find me. But it does. It finds me and it doesn’t let go.

Then— A knock. Soft. Barely there.

“Lou?”

Henry.

I don't answer. I can’t. If I open my mouth right now, I’ll beg him to fix it—and I know he can’t.

The door creaks open anyway.

“I’m coming in,” he says, voice low. Not a question. Not a demand. Just a promise.

His footsteps are slow, deliberate, as he kneels beside me. I feel the shift in the air before I feel his hand—warm and steady—slide into my hair. He doesn’t pull me to him, doesn’t force me to speak. Just rests his forehead against mine.

“I didn’t know where you went,” he murmurs. His breath is shaky. “I thought maybe you left.”

I shake my head against him, my voice a cracked whisper. “I didn’t know where else to fall.”

He closes his eyes, jaw tight. “Into me baby,” he says, wrapping his arms around me pulling me onto his lap as he sits on the cold ceramic bathroom floor. “Always into me, I’ve got you Lou.”

And this time, I do.

I let go. I let myself sob into his chest, clutch at his shirt like a lifeline, like maybe if I hold tight enough, the storm outside won’t reach us.

He holds me through it. Every breath, every tremble. His hands stroke my back, his lips press to the top of my head, and he doesn’t say it’ll be okay—because he knows better.

He just says, “We’ll fight.”

Damn right we will.

Even with my heart in pieces and the future clawing at our door, I know we will. Because if there’s one thing we’ve always done⁠—

It’s fucking fight.

Chapter Thirty-Four

YOU MADE ME LOVE YOU BACK

LOUISIANA

Dallas kicks off his muddy sneakers by the back door, same as always—one shoe landing sideways on the mat, the other skidding halfway across the floor. He’s got grass stuck to his socks and dirt on his shirt. A little scrape on his elbow, but he’s smiling. Not wide, not showy, just that small, hard-earned smile he only gives when the world feels safe—for a moment.

“Hey Louis! Did you pick up fishing bait? I bet Bash five bucks I’d out fish Henry today.” His voice is bright, cocky, playful in that way only a kid finally learning how to be a kid can sound.

Then he sees us.

Sees the way Henry’s jaw is clenched too tight. The way I can’t quite meet his eyes. The air shifts—thickens.

His smile slips, slow and uncertain. “What’s wrong?”

I try to answer, but my throat tightens. Words ball up behind my teeth like broken glass.