Chapter 8
FINLEY
There’s only so much of the day I can spend in bed, tracing the lavender shadows and soft edges of the pretty room Elijah made for me.
Staying here means I don’t have to think about the silence from Havenview—no calls from my parents, from Elijah’s parents, from the Elders.
Silence isn’t mercy.
In The Fellowship, silence is the inhale before the strike. They whipped me to make me “worthy” of the man they chose. The same man who tried to drown me because my brother said so.
They won’t let me go. Not without a price.
I pull the blanket tight around my shoulders and tuck it under my thighs, so it hides the scabs.
Elijah’s T-shirt skims mid-thigh, but with no underwear it feels reckless to wander his home without a shield—for modesty, sure, but mostly to keep his eyes off the wounds.
Every time he notices them, something in him goes winter-cold.
The living room is still ruffled from last night; rumpled throw, dent in the cushion where I fell asleep while Elijah played video games.
When he didn’t go to Jayden’s to study tape after the game, I thought we’d talk. But this Elijah doesn’t talk much. In the two weeks I’ve been here, we’ve learned how to be quiet beside each other.
I fold the blanket and set it neatly on the couch.
In the utility room, a clean pair of his boxers sits folded on the dryer—salvation.
Once I’m decently armored, I drift back to the windows.
The late morning sun lays a bright stripe across the floor, glass warm against my palms as I take in the far city and, below, the ocean lifting and falling like a sleeping animal.
So much water. My lungs cinch just looking at it. I’ve wanted to see the ocean since I knew what it was—real sand, driftwood that smells of salt, foam that clings to ankles. One day soon. When I’m braver than the memory.
“You’re awake,” Elijah says behind me.
He sounds breathless. I turn to find him in the open doorway, flushed from a run, shirt clinging, hair damp. He looks like the boy I knew if someone drew in the lines and shaded the muscles—familiar and startling at once.
“You good?” He scans me head to toe, then offers a white paper bag. “I got you something.”
His other hand plants on his hip in that nerdy, endearing way of his. I meet him halfway, take the bag, and hold his gaze as I open it.
“What is it?”
“See for yourself.”
Inside, there’s a small universe of stationery. Pens, pencils, markers, watercolors, and a journal stitched with white and lilac irises. The same flowers he used to sneak from the church beds, tucked behind his back like contraband.
Something surges up and breaks over me—joy and ache in the same breath. Tears sting. I blink hard.
“You like it?”
“Yes.”
“You used to keep a journal, and I know how fishy out of water—”
“Fishy out of water?” The snort escapes me before I can catch it, heat climbing my cheeks as fast as his climbs his.
“You know what I mean. It feels weird being here at first, so I figured you’d like somewhere to write it down, or… I don’t know… sketch, paint…”
“Thank you. It’s so thoughtful,” I say, inching closer as his fingertips ghost the back of my hand.
We hover in the quiet. I want him to step in, to close the last inch, to say something. His mouth is perfectly carved, his eyes dark and soft, and when his gaze drifts over my lips my heart tumbles.
He rakes a hand through his hair and frees the topknot, so it falls in damp tangles around his jaw. My breath stalls. He leans—not enough—and his fingers comb the messy strands over my shoulder, knuckles brushing my nape. Sparks skitter across my skin.
Please. Just kiss me. It’s been so long. Too long.
He’s close.
Closer—
And then he isn’t. The step he takes back tears a sound out of me I don’t recognize.
“I should shower,” he says.
I nod without trusting my voice and track him down the hall. The light licks at the damp on his shoulders, muscle catching and sliding under skin. My throat works.
“Hungry?” His breath hitches.
“Starving…”
“Good. Let me get showered and we’ll order something.”
He disappears, leaving me with the bag. I trace the stitched irises; the neat nibs lined in their tray. He thought of everything. I want to dive headfirst into it. Instead, I decide to do something for him.
I set the gift on the counter and knot the blanket neatly. The kitchen is quiet and orderly—Elijah neat to the bone. I open cupboards, check the fridge, gather bowls. The idea of warm batter and berries fills the space with something like home.
By the time he returns, the island is covered with the berries I sourced from his fridge. The other ingredients are missing; flour I don’t have, milk I don’t have, berries I do. He pauses, brows knitting as he takes in the lineup.
“What are you doing, Fin?”
“Looking for ingredients.”
“Ingredients?”
“For pancakes. You still eat pancakes, don’t you?”
His laugh warms the room, lights his eyes. “Your pancakes were my favorite part of Sunday Feast. Well, when you didn’t lace them with enough salt to float the Dead Sea.”
“It was one time, and it sure taught certain people that salty behavior is as tolerable as salt-burned tastebuds.”
“That give people heart attacks,” he says, still laughing.
His hair is dripping-dark at the roots, sun-bleached ends drying wild in every direction. Like the cowlick his grandmother used to press flat with spit before service. That’s the most grandmotherly thing I ever saw her do. His father’s harshness always followed.
It’s a miracle Elijah is gentle. A miracle he’s warm at all.
“I want to make you pancakes.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to, Elijah. I need to do something for you. Please.”
“Okay.” He chews his lip, glancing toward the fridge. “I’m out of milk—”
“I noticed. You don’t have flour either.”
“I don’t, but my neighbor does.” He points a finger like a promise. “I’ll be right back.”
I slide everything but the berries back into place and start slicing them. The door opens again a minute later, and Elijah returns with the missing ingredients… and Jayden.
The bruising still shadows his face, raccoon-dark around his eyes, the bridge of his nose puffy. Even like this he’s handsome.
He gives me a lazy wave and deposits almond milk, a parchment of bacon, and a carton of eggs in front of me.
“Mr. Precious’ nut milk. Just for you,” he says, jazz-handing the carton with a grin.
“Seriously?” Elijah flicks the back of his head. “You just got in the door.”
“You told me not to be weird.” Jayden looks over with an innocent face, catching a glare. “What? It is your nut milk.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“And you’re a grumpy asshole. Anyway—” He pivots back to me. “—I hear you’re making pancakes.”
“Maybe I’ll uninvite you,” Elijah mutters.
“Yeah… no. That’s not happening. I never pass up pancakes, especially when they’re sold to me as the best in the world.”
“I said the best on the West Coast.”
“Yeah, but you should’ve said the best in the world because that’s what a man says about his girl’s cooking.” Jayden drops onto a stool and watches me finish with the fruit. “Did you enjoy the game last night?”
“You mean the goal you scored or the assists?” I glance up, teasing.
He glows a little, even bruised. There’s something about him, an open curiosity that catches light, the way a room brightens when he laughs.
“It was great, right?”
“Your modesty is second to none,” Elijah says, pouring him coffee.
Jayden drowns it in creamer from his shorts pocket. When he opens his mouth, Elijah cuts him dead. “Don’t. Don’t say it.”
“Fuck me, it’s right on the tip of my tongue, man. Like, do you know how hard it is for me to swallow it?”
“You can do it. Swallow the innuendo, JJ.”
A laugh bursts out of me at their rhythm.
Elijah’s eyes keep crinkling at the corners.
I wonder if he’s always like this around Jayden.
If he realizes he hasn’t stopped smiling since Jayden walked in.
A small ache pinches my ribs—close to jealousy, except I like what Jayden does to him too much to resent it.
As if he hears me thinking, Jayden narrows his eyes playfully.
“Why would I be modest when I can be confident?” He tips his chin, the freckle on his cheek popping. “What do you think, Lucky?”
Elijah rolls his eyes.
“Lucky?”
“I think you should watch every game. You’re clearly a lucky charm.”
“Don’t listen to him, he sweet talks all the girls,” Elijah says, sliding onto the next stool.
“And guys,” Jayden adds with a boyish smirk, “I don’t discriminate between chromosomes.”
Even with a seat between them, their shoulders almost touch when they swivel—gravity tugging them in. The sight makes my chest buoyant.
Jayden palms a handful of blueberries and tosses them back. “What am I doing? Give me a job. Anything. I’m pretty good in the kitchen.”
“He’s great at everything,” Elijah says, heading for the fridge and returning with a bottle of bright purple smoothie.
“Aww, thanks, partner.” Jayden’s grin falters as he leans away and gulps. “How do you still drink that crap? I’ve regurgitated vomit that tasted better.”
“Of course, your vomit is like the greatest ever,” Elijah replies, deadpan.
“Well, duh, it’s mine.”
It hits me all at once how normal this feels. As though I’ve stepped into a life already in motion and found my place without thinking. Cooking for them, listening to the banter, catching Elijah’s soft laugh and Jayden’s steady spark.
A week ago, I was sure I’d never see Elijah again. Now I’m here, and for the first time in forever, I feel like I belong.