Page 44

“Tomorrow we’ll get you a haircut,” I say softly.

Henry’s voice comes from the doorway, low and even. “And some clothes that don’t make you look like you stole ‘em off a scarecrow.”

Dallas’s eyes flick between us, sharp and suspicious, like he’s seeing right through the quiet choreography we’re trying to pull off. Like he knows exactly what kind of script this is supposed to be—and he’s not buying it.

“Haircuts are stupid,” he grumbles.

I grin, just a little. “So is walking around like a little Yeti. People might start asking if we dragged you out of a cave.”

He narrows his eyes. “Says Farmer Fred.”

Henry steps in slow, chuckling under his breath as he ruffles Dallas’s hair—a quick, easy pass of his hand, like he’s done it a thousand times before. Not heavy. Not careful in the pitying way people usually are with kids like him. Just…gentle. Familiar. Like instinct.

Dallas doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t lean in, either. But he lets it happen.

Something in my chest pulls tight. That soft, hollow ache that creeps in before you realize it’s grief again, wearing a different face. I feel it settle beneath my sternum, low and mean, and I don’t need a mirror to know I’m looking at them like they’re something I’ll never touch.

All the what ifs rise like smoke in my chest—thick and bitter. What if things had been different. What if I could’ve given him this. What if I was whole enough to be more than just a stand-in.

Because biology doesn’t care how much you ache for something, and love—no matter how fierce, no matter how full—isn’t enough to make a body do what it can’t.

So I swallow the lump in my throat and breathe through the burn. I will not drown in this.

Not tonight.

“Oh, kid,” he says with a half-smile. “You’ll figure it out soon enough—Lou doesn’t give a single damn what anybody thinks.”

Dallas doesn’t answer. Just tugs the blanket up a little higher and sinks down an inch, like maybe this bed is warmer than he expected. Like maybe, for once, he doesn’t have to sleep with one foot ready to run.

It’s not surrender, but it’s a start.

Henry lowers his voice, gentler now. “We’re just down the hall if you need anything, alright?”

Dallas gives a tiny nod. Barely a breath.

But we’ll take it.

We leave the door cracked, just wide enough for a thin blade of light to spill into the hallway—just wide enough to pretend we’re not keeping watch.

Henry’s bedroom is all hard edges and muted colors—dark wood furniture, a heavy leather chair pulled up near the window, and the bed itself is rugged, covered in a thick, worn quilt that smells faintly of cedar and tobacco. It’s a room built for a man who’s used to carrying weight, not sharing it.

But for me, it’s more than that. It’s a shrine to a past when we were younger versions of ourselves—less guarded, less broken. But I can’t afford to live in the past when the present me has nothing to offer.

I stand by the window, arms crossed, jaw tight. I’m trying not to let the memories pull me under.

Behind me, Henry leans in the doorway, arms folded like he's trying to look casual. But I can feel his eyes dragging over me—reading every bit of tension I’m trying to pretend isn’t there.

“So…where the fuck are you sleeping tonight?” I force the words out, low and rough.

Henry cocks that damn eyebrow, slow smile creeping across his face. “Right here, little viper. With my fiancée.”

I whirl on him so fast my heel skids on the floor.

“The hell you are.” My finger jabs hard into his chest, all heat and fury and panic I can't name. This is all pretend so he can manage a few months on the damned couch.

He doesn’t even blink. Just looks at me with that infuriating calm like I’m the one being ridiculous.

“Where’d you expect me to sleep, Lou?”