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But Maggie did.

She pulled us into the living room, sank to the floor with us in her lap, her hand stroking my hair, voice low and warm like the hush of a lullaby. “Oh, precious babies. I got you. You hear me? I got you.”

Even though my chest still ached and my world had gone silent and strange, I believed her.

Because that night, in a stranger’s house, surrounded by confused boys in their underwear and a woman who smelled like sugar cookies and safety, Maggie Wilder became the only thing that made sense in a world that didn’t anymore.

No, this house isn’t mine, but it is still home all the same.

Sparse, clean, and masculine. No frills. Boots by the door, a sheriff’s badge catching the light from the dresser. A rush of memories from the night before hits me—me, showing up to Bangers in my pajamas, drinks flowing, and Henry. I’d insisted on staying. Here. With him.

I curse under my breath, pushing the blanket off. My head throbs. My mouth is drier than hell. My pride is feeling even worse.

I stand slowly, bare feet sinking into the cool hardwood, trying to drown out the distant echo of Sophie’s laugh bouncing down the hallway—light, careless, like nothing could touch her. Magnolia’s voice cuts through next, sharp and teasing, calling after me to use the water-based paint if I was dead set on slathering color over every damn thing and everyone.

Then I see him.

Laid out on the couch like it is no big thing. Blanket half-kicked off, mouth parted in sleep, chest rising and falling like he didn’t have the weight of this whole damn county on him. Peaceful.

Too peaceful.

It irritates the hell out of me.

Maybe it’s because I still see the boy who took on the weight of the world—not because he had to, but because that’s who he is. Like it is stitched into his bones, the kind of man who carries everyone else’s pain without ever asking for relief. He never complains, never pauses, even when exhaustion shadows his every move, because giving up just isn’t in his blood. Hell, I’ve always wished I could be more like him in that way—steady, unbreakable, strong enough to hold everything without falling apart.

Or maybe it is just me.

Sitting in that too-quiet room, feeling eighteen all over again—raw and aching, perched on the cracked edge of the porcelain tub. Knees pulled tight to my chest, cold linoleum pressing through the thin fabric of my pajamas. The bitter sting of bile and cheap whiskey sharp at the back of my throat. Grief so heavy it felt like concrete settling in my bones, and still, I wouldn’t let myself cry. Not yet.

We’d buried my daddy that morning.

Then that night, Henry Wilder buried himself in me—desperate, frantic, like he was clawing his way out of his own ruin through me. Bruised hands, ragged breath, kisses that tasted more like goodbyes than anything else. I let him. Because he was the only thing that ever made me feel alive when everything else was dead inside. I was grasping—clawing for that spark, for something real to remind me I still existed beneath the pain.

For one fleeting second, I felt it.

Then he looked at me—stone cold, jaw clenched tight, eyes full of every wound he refused to name—and called me a fucking mistake.

Like I hadn’t just given him the last piece of myself I hadn’t already buried beside my daddy.

I shake those thoughts loose like dust falling from my clothes and stalk into the kitchen. The cold hardwood presses against my bare feet as I grab a glass, filling it with ice-cold water—each clink of the ice like a promise of sharp relief. The chill seeps through the glass, biting into my skin.

I turn back toward him, moving slowly, deliberately—like I own every inch of this place. Like the old ghosts pressing against my ribs don’t exist.

“Consider yourself lucky I didn’t use the hose,” I say, my voice low and steady. Then I dump the glass, ice and water crashing over his face.

He moves like lightning.

One second he’s out cold, the next I’m slammed to the floor, breath ripped from my lungs. His full weight crushes me, pressing me into the rough wood beneath. His hand clamps tight around my throat—hard and unrelenting. His eyes blaze wild, glassy and unfocused, not seeing me, not seeing anything. Just raw instinct and threat.

I freeze. My heart hammers against his grip, a frantic drum against my ribcage. Air is a cruel tease—thin and scarce—I can barely draw a single breath. Panic coils tight in my stomach, hot and sharp.

Then, just like that, he blinks.

His gaze sharpens, piercing through the fog. Reality crashes down on him like a second, brutal impact. He loosens his grip, but doesn’t let go.

“Don’t ever fucking do that again,” he says, voice low and ragged, rough like gravel scraping skin. “I could’ve hurt you, wildflower.”

The nickname slices through me—unexpected and raw—scraping against something deep and fragile inside.