Chapter 9
Sadie
Iwake up to someone gently tapping my shoulder.
“Sadie,” a voice murmurs. “Sadie, can you open your eyes for me?”
My eyelids flutter. Everything aches. My head pulses like it’s got its own heartbeat. The light is too bright, the room too warm.
I blink once. Twice. Shepard’s face comes into view, close but not too close.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Sadie,” I whisper. My throat’s dry. “Still Sadie.”
Boone leans into view next. “Do you know where you are?”
I nod a little, or maybe I just imagine that I do. “Apartment… Shepard’s?”
“That’s right.” Boone’s voice is calm, steady. “Do you remember what happened?”
“Truck,” I say. “There was a squirrel. I swerved.”
The answers come slow, like dragging thoughts through wet cement. They seem satisfied for now. They murmur something to each other, but I’m already drifting.
The next time they wake me, it’s Gabe. “You with us?” he asks, eyes scanning me like he’s assessing a busted engine.
“I’m here,” I rasp.
“You hungry?”
I think about it. “A little,” I admit.
Boone perks up. “You want to try some mac and cheese?”
It smells good, all warm and cheesy and nostalgic, but just sitting up feels like it takes too much effort. I manage to prop myself on one elbow and shake my head.
“I don’t think I can eat all that.”
“You want something simpler?” Shepard asks, already on his feet.
I nod, rubbing at my temple. “Maybe… eggs?”
“Perfect,” Boone says. “I make a mean soft scramble.”
I sink back into the couch. Gus has his chin on my lap like he knows I’m falling apart inside. I scratch behind his ears absently, blinking through the fuzz in my brain.
I feel the cool weight of a damp towel against my forehead as Shepard crouches next to me again.
“You’re still running a fever,” he says. “But if it doesn’t spike higher by morning, we’ll let you shower, okay?”
I nod. This… this is new. Being cared for like this. These three strangers watching over me like I’m worth it. Like I’m not just a burden.
I blink again to clear the tears before they can build.
They come back with eggs on toast, perfectly soft and buttery. Boone hands me the plate with a fork already loaded.
“If you can’t finish, that’s fine,” he says gently. “Just eat what you can.”
I nibble a bit. Swallowing feels harder than usual. Everything still hurts, but not in the same way it used to. Not in the way Scott and the others left me hurting. This is more… tender. Bruised. Manageable.
“You from Memphis?” Gabe asks from where he’s leaned back in the armchair. His tone is casual, but his eyes are too focused. “Your truck’s number plates,” he explains.
“Yeah,” I answer, brushing at a few toast crumbs in my lap. “Born and raised.”
“Big change from here,” Boone says.
“Yeah.” I look around Shepard’s apartment. It’s quiet, soft, full of books and warmth. The rain still drums against the windows. “Memphis was loud. Always moving. My mom was a nurse. Raised me and took care of my grandma on her own. She passed when I was sixteen. Gran too, two years later.”
I don’t usually talk about this. I don’t know why I’m doing it now. Maybe it’s the fever. Maybe it’s the kindness.
“I’m sorry,” Shepard says. He’s on the other end of the couch, one foot tucked under him like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible.
I glance at him. “You guys from around here?”
Shepard shakes his head. “No. Originally from Vermont. Moved here about nine years ago. Needed a change. These guys are from here, though.”
We’re quiet for a beat. The only sound is the rain and Gus’s occasional sigh.
“You’ve been calling out for someone,” Gabe says suddenly, eyes still on me. “Max. Is he your brother?”
My fork pauses in midair. It shakes slightly in my hand before I lower it. The weight of the name is like a rock pressed against my chest.
“No,” I say. My voice is barely there. “Max was my husband.”
The words feel foreign and heavy. I haven’t said them out loud in over a year. Not since the funeral. Not since I burned every bridge in that town.
A thick silence falls over the room.
Shepard is the one to speak first. “I’m sorry, Sadie,” he says softly. “I… I know what that’s like.”
There’s something raw in his voice. Something broken.
I glance at him again, and the air between us shifts. Different kind of grief, same kind of ache.
“I don’t really talk about him,” I say. “He died. House fire. I wasn’t home.”
“You don’t have to say more,” Boone says quickly.
But I do. Because if I don’t now, I never will.
“He was a firefighter. In Memphis. Just like…” I glance toward Gabe, then look away. “Just like you.”
I’m not sure what I expect. Anger? Disgust?
But none of them say a word.
“I stayed with the pack for a while after,” I continue. “Tried to heal. Tried to be useful. But it got…” I shake my head. “It wasn’t safe for me anymore.”
“I’m guessing the rest of the pack didn’t take it well when you left,” Gabe says.
How? How did he know that?
“Something like that,” I whisper.
“Is Scott part of said pack?” Boone asks.
My eyes snap to his. I forget they’ve seen my phone. They probably pieced things together when Shepard pulled me from the truck.
I nod slowly.
“He’s been calling?” Shepard asks.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t have to deal with that alone,” Gabe says, voice low but firm. “People in this town look out for each other. If he shows up, you know where to find any one of us.”
I blink hard. My hands are trembling. Boone notices and silently hands me the Gatorade again. I take a long sip.
This is the first time I’ve spoken about Max out loud. The first time I’ve told someone about Scott since I left. And here I am, in an apartment with three men I barely know, finally breathing like the air might be safe again.
I lean back against the couch and close my eyes.
I’m still scared. But a little less alone.
Just a little.
Shepard’s voice floats through the haze of my thoughts. “We should watch something. Keep it light.”
My head feels stuffed with cotton, but I manage to open my eyes again. The soft hum of the room comforts me. The rain’s eased into a gentle drizzle now, and for once, I’m not tense at the thought of what comes next.
“What time is it?” I ask, voice scratchy.
“Almost five,” Gabe answers from somewhere near the window, grabbing the remote like he owns the place. “And just so we’re clear, Shepard is not allowed to put on one of his painfully boring documentaries about obscure architectural ruins.”
I glance toward Shepard, who just shrugs in good-natured defeat. “They’re informative.”
“They’re sleep aids,” Boone grunts from the kitchen, where he’s still nursing a mug of coffee like it’s the only thing holding him together.
“I like documentaries,” I say softly.
“Don’t encourage him,” Gabe mutters, tossing the remote onto the couch. “What do you want to watch? And please don’t say true crime. Boone will spiral.”
“Valid,” Boone says. “I already have anxiety dreams about cold cases.”
I chuckle—barely. It’s more of a huff of breath, but still, it counts. I shift on the couch, still cocooned in Shepard’s sweatshirt and thick socks. My body aches in unfamiliar ways, but it’s manageable. My head’s no longer splitting in two, just cracked down the middle.
“My sketchbook,” I murmur.
Shepard looks up. “You want it?”
I nod.
He moves to grab it from the grocery bag they brought in earlier, tucked beneath his coat. He passes it to me with the reverence of someone handling something sacred.
I whisper a quiet thank-you, open to the last page, and let my pencil find its home in my hand.
The familiar drag of graphite against paper is grounding. Safe. Like breathing underwater and finally breaking the surface. I don’t even think about what I’m drawing. I trace the shape again—the one that’s already marked my ribs in ink.
A phoenix, wings arched, flames curling into the edges of its feathers. Rebirth in motion.
This one never stays dead.
It’s a little comforting.
It’s terrifying how safe I feel here. How the couch holds me like it knows what I’ve been through. How these three men orbit quietly in my space, not asking too much, not pushing too hard.
Strangers. But I’m soothed anyway.
How?
Why?
“You always draw that?” Boone asks gently, glancing at my page as he sits beside me with a second mug, this one green and chipped.
“Since I was a kid,” I murmur, not looking up. “I used to imagine it could fly me away from anywhere.”
He doesn’t say anything else. Just lets the silence bloom around us.
I don’t know how long I sketch. Minutes, maybe longer. I barely notice when the TV comes to life, filling the room with that familiar hum of sitcom laughter.
When I finally lift my head, I find a comedy rolling. Something old-school and ridiculous. Bright lighting, canned laughs, someone in a chicken costume chasing a man in a suit.
I blink once. Then twice.
“What the hell are we watching?” I ask, bemused.
“Shepard’s pick,” Gabe says without missing a beat. “Which means this was supposed to be a documentary about Viking funerals, but I hijacked the remote and picked a show with actual joy in it.”
Shepard shrugs, sitting cross-legged on the floor, a throw pillow in his lap. “This is fine.”
Boone laughs under his breath. “You like this. Don’t lie.”
I do too. The color, the rhythm, the easy jokes that ask nothing from me. I blink at the screen, something unfurling slow and reluctant in my chest.
Gus lifts his head from the carpet and pads toward me with a sleepy wag of his tail. I shift to make space, and he hops up with the clumsy weight of a dog who’s never once considered how big he is.
I smile and scratch behind his ear as he curls up with a soft huff, settling his entire body across my lap like I was made for it.
So warm.
So soft.
I lean back against the cushions. My limbs are heavy again, the kind of ache that creeps in after a hard crash—mental, emotional, physical, all of it.
But the pain doesn’t scare me like it used to. Not with laughter still echoing off the walls. Not with Gus breathing slow and steady against my stomach.
I trace one last line of flame on my phoenix and then set the book aside. My eyes blur. Not from fever. Not entirely. Just… tired. Safe enough to let go for once.
They’re still talking. Someone makes a joke about something—probably the show. I can’t follow it. I don’t try to.
For once, I don’t brace for the worst.
I just listen.
And then I sleep.