February

Chapter 16 The Saint and The Storm

Last night, I called Arlo to tell him I had his wallet. He said he'd swing by tomorrow at the shelter. Apparently, he was bringing Lyra.

Great.

The last thing I wanted was to see her, but I'd have to keep it together.

She was pregnant, after all, and needed a safe place.

Compassion didn't cost me anything — even if the man I once called the love of my life used to write her letters so raw, so aching, that they still burned in my memory.

Some of them written while he was with me.

I couldn't think about that now. Not when she was about to walk through the door.

"They're almost here," Declan said, glancing at the clock.

"I know," I murmured, straightening a stack of intake forms just to keep my hands busy. "Do you think I should... leave for a bit?"

He exhaled softly, then placed his steady and grounding hands on my shoulders. "You're a beautiful, capable woman, Feb. But for God's sake, stop running from pain. It only follows faster."

A small smile tugged at my lips. "You're right.

Talking to Arlo last night actually helped.

It felt like closure. I realized maybe it was never about me not being enough.

Maybe it was him — his mind, his past, the way he loved in fragments.

It wasn't me, and saying that out loud.. . it felt cleansing."

Declan's gaze softened. "You deserve peace, Feb. However it comes."

We went back to setting up the main hall — fresh linens folded on cots, tea steaming on the counter, gentle music humming from the old speaker. Then, through the window, I saw Arlo's car pull into the lot.

My heart stumbled in my chest.

He stepped out first, scanning the building with that quiet focus of his.

Then Lyra followed — one hand resting on her stomach, though she was barely showing, the other clutching her phone like it was armor.

Levi trailed behind them, scowling like he'd been dragged into a storm he hadn't signed up for.

"Here we go," Declan muttered.

The door opened.

"Hi," I said, forcing a warm, professional smile. "Welcome, Lyra. I'm February. We've met before, I think. Let's get you settled in."

Arlo mumbled something about taking a quick call and stepped aside.

Lyra's gaze swept over me from head to toe, cool and assessing, before her lips curved into something razor-thin. "Oh, I remember you," she said. "The saint."

Her tone twisted in my stomach, but I kept my voice even. "Yes. I help coordinate intake here. We're glad you came."

"Sure you are," she said, brushing past me with the faintest curl of disdain. "This place smells like disinfectant and pity."

Declan shot me a warning look — don't engage.

"It's safe," I said quietly. "That's what matters."

Lyra snorted. "Safe. Right. Because nothing says comfort like beige walls and charity tea."

Arlo reappeared then, phone still in hand, voice low but edged. "Lyra!"

She turned, eyebrows lifting in exaggerated innocence. "What? I'm just sharing my first impressions. Isn't that allowed here, too?"

"Knock it off," he said, his voice hardening. "She's helping you, and for the record, it's thanks to her that you even have a bed tonight."

Her expression flickered, but she recovered fast. "Oh, how noble. You two always did love saving the broken ones, didn't you?"

Arlo's jaw flexed. "Don't do that," he warned. ''Not to her."

Lyra smiled faintly, poisonous-sweet. "Relax, hero. It's not like I said anything that wasn't true."

Levi looked at me and exhaled loudly. "Told you, she was a delight," he said, deadpan.

I forced a small, professional nod. "Let's start the intake process. Full name?"

Lyra dropped into a chair with the grace of a cat about to pounce. "Lyra Collins. Twenty-six. Currently pregnant, recently homeless, tragically betrayed, and doing my best not to fall apart. Do you want that alphabetized?"

Arlo pinched the bridge of his nose. "Lyra, please."

"Please what?" she fired back. "Please not remind everyone why I'm here? Or please not mention that you're leaving me here instead of taking care of me."

His voice snapped then. "I am, so enough! You're not here to pick a fight. You're here because you need help. Try acting like you want it."

For a heartbeat, something like hurt and disbelief flickered across her face. Then she laughed, brittle and sharp, the sound scraping against the walls.

"Wow," she said, tilting her head at him. "You've changed."

Her gaze drifted toward me, slow and deliberate, before cutting back to Arlo with a smirk that didn't reach her eyes. "So this is who replaced me?" she murmured, feigning amusement. "You really did trade down, didn't you?"

The room seemed to shrink.

"Lyra," Arlo said, voice like gravel. "Apologize."

She blinked, incredulous. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. You don't get to talk to her like that."

She stared at him — at the steadiness in his face. "God," she whispered, half to herself. "You really have changed."

"Good," he said evenly. "Now apologize."

The silence that followed was heavy, humming with tension. Lyra let out a slow, theatrical sigh. "Fine," she said, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. "I'm sorry, Miss Sunshine."

I could tell Arlo was about to say something, but the moment was already stretching too thin. I cleared my throat, keeping my tone calm."Let's get you to your room."

Lyra stood, chin high, eyes glassy. "Lead the way, Saint February. Let's see what salvation looks like these days."

As I guided her down the corridor, she found fault with everything — the lighting, the paint, the faint scent of detergent.

"Do you always make it look like a hospital in here?" she asked, voice laced with mock sweetness. "All sterile and soulless. Even the walls are beige. I bet you picked that color."

I kept my tone even. "No, I only volunteer one day a week, sometimes twice a week, but shelters go for calm and clean. People need that here."

"Calm," she echoed, laughing softly. "Sure. That's one word for lifeless."

I was seething, but the reminder echoed in my mind: she's pregnant, she's pregnant. I forced my voice steady.

"You'll have your own space soon. You can make it however you like," I said evenly.

She gave a derisive little hum, brushing past me toward her door. "So this is where you dump your charity cases."

Before I could answer, Arlo appeared behind her, voice cold enough to freeze the air. "Lyra. One more word like that, and I'll take you out of here myself."

She whipped around, eyes wide. "You wouldn't—"

"Try me," he said, his voice flat, controlled. "You don't get to act like a spoiled child when all we're doing is trying to help you and your baby."

Her jaw quivered, and for a heartbeat she looked small, almost unbearably human.

"What? I'm supposed to be grateful you decided to dump me here instead of keeping me in your home?

!" she whispered, voice shaking. "You owe me, Arlo.

I was there when no one else was. I pulled you off the street, remember?

I stayed, and now... now you're just walking away? "

He took a slow breath, steady but pained. "I'm not walking away. I'm making sure you're safe. That's all I can do."

"Oh, please," she said bitterly, tears shining. "That's what people say when they're done pretending to care."

For a moment, guilt crossed his face. I saw it flicker and fade. "You're not my responsibility anymore," he said quietly. "You deserve help, and this is what this is."

Her expression hardened. "Wow. You must be proud of yourself. Do you feel like a man now?"

"Don't," he warned again, his voice rough.

Silence stretched thin between them until Declan appeared in the doorway, breaking the tension.

"Lyra, the doctor's ready to see you," he said gently. "She'll go over everything with you before you settle in."

Lyra wiped at her eyes and shot me one last look, pure venom wrapped in fragility.

"Thanks for your hospitality, Mother Mercy."

The doctor led her down the hallway, her footsteps fading into the hum of the shelter.

Arlo exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. "I'm so sorry," he said quietly. "She's always been like this, but... I never really saw it. Not the way other people did."

I just nodded, my voice low. For a moment, I caught a glimpse of what it must have been like between them with her sharp words and the way he'd learned to bend himself small just to keep her calm.

"It's fine," I said softly. "She's safe now. That's what matters."

He looked at me then . "I'm sorry she said those things. You didn't deserve any of it."

Something soft passed between us, something almost familiar.

"I missed you," he said finally, voice hoarse.

I swallowed hard. "Don't say that."

"But it's true," he said. "Yesterday, talking to you, it was the first time in months I felt... alive."

My chest ached. "I should go," I whispered. "I am very busy."

He nodded, but his eyes lingered on me as I walked away.

It happened three days later. It wasn't supposed to be my day at the shelter, but they'd called, asking for a favor. A few hours after I arrived, just as I'd finished sorting through a pile of donations at the front, I heard her voice. That soft, mocking tone I'd come to dread.

"Well, if it isn't Saint February."

I froze. That voice, sharp, amused, laced with poison, hooked straight into my spine. Slowly, I turned. Lyra stood by the doorway, arms folded, a smug smile painted across her lips.

"Lyra," I said carefully. "Is there something you need?"

"Oh, don't get all professional on me," she said, sauntering closer. "I just wanted to see the woman who thinks she has my Arlo."

I blinked, rolled my eyes. "Okay, Lyra."

That single word hit its mark. Her smile faltered for a heartbeat before she tilted her head, her voice turning syrupy and cruel.

"Oh, sweetheart, you don't get it, do you? He'll always be mine. He's a puppet and I know every string to pull. You wouldn't believe the things I did to him, and he still came crawling back. You'll never know him the way I did. The way he shook. The way he begged me to love him back."

My throat tightened, but I refused to look away.

"I cheated. I yelled. I hit. I insulted him. Then I left. And when I called, he answered. Every. Single. Time. Try to compete with that, you can't."

"Really?" I said quietly. "Then why are you here, instead of in his arms while he's comforting you?"

For a second, her smirk faltered. Her jaw clenched before she forced the smile back into place.

"He just needs time," she said, trying to sound confident, though her voice trembled slightly.

Then she added, too sweetly, "Did he tell you he already bought baby things? Blankets, bottles, the works. Funny, isn't it? How quickly he falls into savior mode."

Her words landed like small, deliberate cuts but I steadied my voice.

"Good," I said evenly. "He does that a lot for charity. You're not special."

Her eyes flashed, the mask slipping. I stepped a little closer, lowering my voice.

"Tell me something, Lyra. Did he buy those things with you or were they part of the donations for this shelter?" I watched her carefully. "And while we're being honest, how many times has he called you lately? Checked on you? Texted you?"

I didn't know if any of it was true. But the flicker in her eyes told me I'd hit the mark.

"You think you're smart," she hissed. "You'll never understand what we have."

"Maybe not," I said, straightening. "But do you? Because the way you brag about breaking him tells me everything I need to know."

I turned before she could respond. My pulse thundered in my ears, a raw, steady drumbeat of adrenaline.

My hands were shaking, but I didn't let her see.

Outside, the cold air hit my face, sharp and grounding.

I unclenched my fists and stared at the thin red crescents my nails had carved into my palms.

I exhaled slowly. I needed to draw, I needed to pour every jagged thought onto paper before it swallowed me whole.