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That gets him. He jerks his gaze back to me, confused. Then I watch it happen—the slow pull of his shoulders, the little lift of his chin, armor snapping into place. The tough-guy mask coming on like second nature.

Damn if it doesn’t ache to watch.

He doesn’t know what to do with someone staying when they don’t have to.

So I soften. Drop my voice low. “Dallas, we’re not asking you to spill your guts. This isn’t about that. We just want you to know we’re here. We see you. And if all you need is someone to sit next to you while the world feels too loud—that’s okay. I’ll be that.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just lets that sit inside him. Then slowly—so slowly—he nods. Barely there, like the motion might break him open if it’s too much.

But when he looks back up at me, his eyes aren’t as guarded. Something’s cracked open in there.

“I’d feel better if you checked on her,” he says finally, almost a whisper.

I nod, standing. “Then that’s what I’ll do, D.” I ruffle his hair, light and fast before he can swat me away. “You go finish getting ready—I’ll find her.”

I make it halfway down the hall before I feel his hand, small and urgent, tugging at my arm. I turn, eyebrows raised.

He hesitates, eyes flicking toward the ground. “Tell her—” he starts, but the words won’t come.

I rest my hand over his shoulder, grounding us both. “You don’t have to say it,” I tell him gently. “She knows, kiddo.”

He studies me then—eyes narrowing just a bit, like he’s trying to figure out if I really believe what I’m saying. After a moment, he gives a small nod, then turns and disappears into his room without another word.

I move through the house on quiet feet, heading toward our bedroom like I’m approaching something sacred and fragile. Part of me hopes she won’t hear me, that I can get a glimpse of what’s going on behind her walls—walls even I haven’t fully climbed, not yet.

Louisiana Wright. She’s fire and gravity and heart all tangled into one. Too much for some people. Never enough for the ones who needed her most. I’ve never doubted for a second she’d make a good mother. She’s built for it. Built to love with that fierce, all-consuming kind of devotion. But I also know love hasn’t always been kind to her.

I smell her before I see her—fresh Magonilas. That scent that clings to her like defiance. It doesn’t fit, not really. Too soft. Too gentle. But maybe that’s why she wears it. A quiet rebellion. A reminder that she’s allowed to be tender even when the world demands she be tough.

Then I see her.

She’s standing in front of the mirror, shirt tossed on the counter like she peeled it off mid-breakdown. Just her bra and jeans, skin bathed in pale light. But that’s not what hits me. It’s her face. Frozen. Hollow. Like she’s staring through the mirror, past her own reflection, into some grief too old and too deep to name.

I know that look.

Saw it the day we buried Murphy.

Saw it again in the hospital, when she curled around Evie so fucking afraid to loose her.

I press my hand to my chest now like I can hold back the ache clawing its way up. Then I step closer. Just enough that I’m standing behind her, not touching, not speaking. Just with her. Letting her be.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t seem to notice me at all.

I look at our reflections—me, solid as stone, the one everyone leans on when things fall apart. I’ve been the steady hand, the quiet strength, the guy who doesn’t flinch. The one who stays standing when everyone else crumbles.

But next to her, I don’t feel invincible. I feel human.

She’s smaller in frame, but not in spirit. There’s a strength in her that most people miss—a quiet, dangerous kind. She could burn the whole God damn world down with that fire in her chest, and I’d thank her for the heat just to stay close.

I’ve lived my whole life holding everyone else together, but the truth is, when I’m near her, I finally feel like someone’s holding me.

Careful not to startle her, I reach out and gently hook my pinkie around hers. She flinches, just barely, and our eyes meet in the mirror—wide, raw, afraid.

“Talk to me, Lou,” I murmur, voice low and breaking. “Whatever it is…I’m here.”

She bites down on her lip, hard, and I see it—her whole body beginning to shake. Whatever she’s holding in, it’s heavier than anything she’s let show.

I brace for the walls to go up, for the bite she usually meets pain with.