Chapter 21
Gabe
The door damn near slams off its hinges when Boone shoves it open, his voice already raised before I even have a chance to set my coffee down.
“Ashford!” he shouts, sharp enough to rattle my skull. “What the hell was that?”
I blink, caught mid-sip, the bitterness of stale brew sticking to my tongue. “What the hell was what?” I ask, even though I know exactly what he’s talking about. My stomach clenches, bracing.
Boone doesn’t bother hiding the fury etched across his face. His hair’s still damp from a shower, sticking up in a dozen directions, his jaw tight, eyes bloodshot like he hasn’t slept a wink since last night.
“Don’t you play dumb with me. You sat there at dinner like a ghost, barely said two words, then stormed out like you’d swallowed glass. That wasn’t tired, Gabe. That was bullshit. And I thought you said you had to be at the station today. I saw your truck in the parking lot.”
I set the mug down carefully, like that will anchor me, keep me calm. “I was tired,” I lie. “Three a.m. call, remember? The bonfire?”
Boone barks a humorless laugh, stepping further into my apartment, kicking the door closed behind him. “No. No, you don’t get to hide behind work this time. You think I don’t know you by now? I’ve been watching you my whole damn life. And last night—last night was important. For her. For Sadie.”
Her name hits like a punch. I stand, force steadiness into my voice. “Lower your damn voice before the whole complex hears you.”
“I don’t care if they hear!” Boone snarls, jabbing a finger toward me. “You’re the one who told me to go for it, remember? You said she liked me. You pushed me. And then you sit there glaring at her all through dinner like she’s done something wrong. What the hell is that, Gabe?”
The walls feel too small, my chest too tight. I lock the door, more to keep myself contained than anything else, the click of the bolt loud in the tense air. I lean against it, drag a hand down my face.
“Fine,” I grit out. “You want the truth? You really want it?”
Boone crosses his arms, chin jutting stubborn. “Yeah. I do.”
“I like her.” The words scrape out of me, raw and ugly. “Okay? I like her. And I know it’s wrong because she likes you, and you’re the one she kissed first, and you’re the one she looks at like she’s finally found a safe place to land. But I can’t turn it off, Boone. I tried. I fucking tried.”
The silence after is thick enough to drown me.
Boone stares, chest rising and falling like he’s holding back an explosion.
“You—” He shakes his head, pacing once across my living room.
“Do you hear yourself? You think this is about you? About your feelings? She’s not a goddamn bone to throw between us, Gabe.
She’s an Omega who’s been through hell. Last night was important because it was the first time she sat at a table with us and wasn’t looking over her shoulder.
The first time she laughed without flinching.
And you—” His voice cracks with rage. “You sat there sulking like a jealous asshole.”
I flinch, but I deserve it.
“I wasn’t sulking,” I mutter, though the words are weak even to my ears.
“Bullshit!” Boone roars, slamming a hand against the back of my couch.
“You think I didn’t see her shrink when you went quiet?
You think she didn’t feel it? You made her doubt herself.
You—” He cuts himself off, breath ragged, fists clenched.
“Don’t you think making her welcome should have taken precedence over whatever the hell was going on in your head? ”
The guilt is acid in my gut. I know what I should say—yes, he’s right, I screwed up. But pride keeps me standing there, jaw locked. “I didn’t mean to make her feel that way,” I say instead.
Boone’s eyes narrow. “Doesn’t matter what you meant. What matters is what you did.”
I push off the door, squaring up to him. “You don’t get it.”
“Then explain it,” he snaps.
I drag in a breath, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
“The dynamic’s changed, Boone. Since she got here, everything’s changed.
The way Shepard looks at her, the way you light up around her.
And me—fuck, I can’t look at her without remembering what it felt like to want someone I couldn’t have.
And you know what? I hate myself for it.
But don’t stand here and act like it’s so simple. ”
Boone stares at me like he doesn’t recognize me. “Simple? Nothing about this is simple. But I’ll tell you what’s not complicated: don’t be a dick to her. Don’t make her feel like she’s done something wrong just because you can’t get your shit straight.”
The words cut deep because they’re true.
I rake a hand through my hair, chest heaving. “You don’t understand—”
“No, you don’t!” Boone slams a fist onto the counter, rattling the dishes in the sink. His voice drops, low and lethal. “Don’t you dare get involved with her if you’re not serious. Don’t you dare. She’s not some distraction you can dip into when you’re lonely. She deserves more than that.”
“I know that!” I shout back, louder than I meant, throat raw.
“I know. You think I don’t know she’s been hurt enough already?
You think I don’t see the way she carries herself, like she’s waiting for someone to break her again?
That’s why I—” My voice cracks, traitorous.
“That’s why I stayed quiet. Because you’re right.
She deserves someone who can give her what she needs.
And maybe that’s you. Maybe it’s not me.
But don’t you fucking stand there and act like I don’t care. ”
For a moment, neither of us moves. His eyes bore into mine, chest heaving, his anger vibrating in the air between us.
And then, without warning, he shakes his head, disgust curling his lip. “You’re pathetic,” he mutters.
Something in me snaps. “Better pathetic than reckless,” I bite back. “You think this is some fairy tale? You think kissing her, cooking her dinner, that suddenly fixes years of damage? She’s fragile, Boone. More fragile than you even realize. And if you screw this up, it’ll crush her.”
His nostrils flare. “And you think I don’t know that? You think I’d take a single step toward her if I wasn’t serious?” He points at me, fury blazing. “You don’t get to project your failures onto me.”
The words hang heavy. My failures.
Sawyer. The ghost that follows me home.
My throat tightens, but I don’t answer.
Boone shakes his head once, sharp. “I can’t even look at you right now.” He storms toward the door, yanking it open so hard it hits the wall. He doesn’t slam it behind him, though. He leaves it gaping, cold air rushing in.
I sink onto the couch, chest hollow, stomach twisted.
The fight still rings in my ears, louder than any siren, louder than any fire crackling in the night. We’ve fought before—brothers always do. But never like this. Never with something real and fragile between us.
And the worst part? He’s right.
I rub a hand over my face, trying to steady my breath, but it doesn’t help. Because all I can think is how Sadie might see me now—if she’ll catch the residue of my bitterness, mistake it for judgment, think she’s done something wrong.
I don’t want that. God, I don’t want that. But I can’t take back what’s already out in the open.
The silence in my apartment feels like punishment. Every time I move, the echo of Boone’s voice is still there, ringing in my ears—his words sharper than any blade.
Pathetic. Reckless. Don’t be a dick to her.
I’ve heard plenty of people yell at me in my life. I’ve pissed off superiors, been cussed out by rookies who thought they knew better, even got into my fair share of brawls in bars back when I was younger and dumber.
But Boone—Boone yelling at me like that—hits deeper than any of it. Because he’s not just my friend. He’s family.
And I don’t know if I just cracked something between us that can’t be fixed.
The rest of the morning drags like I’m wading through molasses. I try to distract myself with routine—laundry, dishes, hell, I even scrub the grout in the bathroom tiles just to give my hands something to do. But every mundane chore only underlines the gnawing pit in my stomach.
My mind keeps circling back to Sadie’s face, to the way she smiled politely last night but her eyes kept darting toward me when I went quiet. Did she feel it? Did she know I was struggling not to snap in half?
If she did, that means Boone’s right. I made her doubt herself. And that’s the last thing she needs.
By noon, I give up on the apartment and walk down to the station. Maybe paperwork will keep me occupied.
It doesn’t. Every time someone laughs in the break room, I flinch, thinking it’s at me. Every time a phone rings, my heart leaps, like maybe Boone decided to call and tell me to go to hell one more time.
But there’s nothing. Just silence and hollow routine.
By late afternoon, exhaustion sets in. The kind that isn’t physical—it’s bone-deep, like my soul’s been wrung out.
I try lying down, but the second I close my eyes, images crash through: Sawyer’s face the night he died, the look in Boone’s eyes when I admitted I liked Sadie, Camilla’s smile before we lost her. Ghosts of every choice I’ve made, every mistake I can’t undo.
The nap doesn’t happen.
Instead, I end up sitting on the floor with my back against the couch, head in my hands, wondering how the hell I got here. How I became the guy who hurts the people he cares about most.
By the time evening rolls around, the sky outside my window is a deep wash of purple and burnt orange, the kind of sunset that usually steadies me. Tonight it just feels mocking, like the universe is reminding me life keeps moving even when I’m stuck in the wreckage.
That’s when my phone buzzes. Shepard’s name lights up the screen.
For a moment, I consider letting it go to voicemail. If Boone hasn’t already told him about the fight, he will soon, and Shepard’s going to tear into me like I deserve. Do I really want to hear that tonight?
But my thumb betrays me, sliding across the screen.
“Yeah?” My voice comes out rough.
“You want to grab a drink?” Shepard’s voice is even, casual, like he’s calling about the weather.
I huff a humorless laugh. “What, you’re not calling to yell at me?”
There’s a pause, then the faintest trace of amusement in his tone. “No. Boone did enough yelling for both of us, I’m guessing. And besides, you beat yourself up more than I ever could.”
The words land heavier than any lecture. Because they’re true. Shepard’s always had this way of cutting straight to the marrow without raising his voice. He doesn’t need to. He sees right through me.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, leaning back against the couch. “Yeah, well. He had a point.”
“I know,” Shepard says simply. No judgment, no bite—just fact. “That’s why I’m asking if you want a drink. Sulking alone isn’t going to help.”
I let out a long breath. “I don’t know if I’m in the mood.”
“You don’t have to be,” Shepard replies. “That’s the point.”
For a second, I want to argue. But the truth is, my walls are paper-thin tonight, and maybe I need to get out of my own head before I drown in it.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Where?”
“The Cliffs,” he says. “Figured we could sit outside, less people.”
Of course he thought about that. Shepard always does.
“Alright,” I say, and hang up before I can change my mind.
The Cliffs is quiet when I get there, just a handful of locals milling around the fire pit, voices low. Shepard’s already outside, a pint in front of him, his glasses catching the glow of string lights strung above the patio.
He raises his chin when he sees me. “Beer’s on me tonight.”
I slide into the chair across from him, grab the glass he’s already ordered for me. The first sip burns cold down my throat, bitter enough to settle something in my chest.
We sit in silence for a while. That’s the thing about Shepard—he doesn’t fill space with empty words. He waits. Gives you room.
Finally, I break. “I screwed it up.”
He looks at me, not unkindly. “What did you screw up, exactly?”
“Everything,” I say, half a laugh, half a groan. “Dinner. Boone. Hell, maybe even Sadie.”
“She didn’t look upset,” Shepard says. “Quiet, yes. But not upset. Not like you’re imagining.”
“You weren’t in my head,” I mutter.
“No,” Shepard agrees, calm as ever. “But I’ve known you long enough to recognize when you’re spiraling. You hold yourself to standards no one could meet, Gabe. And when you fall short, you punish yourself twice as hard.”
I stare into my beer, the foam lacing the rim. “Boone doesn’t see it that way.”
“Boone’s younger than you,” Shepard says gently. “He’s brash. He feels things loud. You know that. Doesn’t mean he’s wrong, but it also doesn’t mean you’re irredeemable.”
The word lodges in my chest. Irredeemable. Isn’t that what I am, though? After Sawyer, after that fire, after the choices that haunt me?
He takes a sip, watching me over the rim of his glass. “You care about her.”
It’s not a question.
“Yeah,” I admit, my voice barely audible.
“She’s safe with Boone,” Shepard says after a beat. “And maybe with you too, in time. But right now? Don’t let your guilt rob her of the chance to heal.”
I close my eyes, the ache in my chest swelling. “You think I should stay away.”
“I think you should be honest—with yourself, with us, with her eventually. But staying away isn’t the answer. She came here to start over. We can give her that. If we’re careful.”
Careful. God, that word feels impossible with the way my pulse races every time Sadie’s near. But Shepard says it like it’s simple. Like control is just another choice.
We sit there until the sky turns fully black, the fire pit throwing sparks into the night. I drink slower than usual, letting Shepard’s words sink in.
He doesn’t absolve me—he never would. But he doesn’t condemn me either. Somehow, that’s worse.
Because now the responsibility is mine. To do better. To not let my feelings wreck this fragile thing we’ve built with Sadie.
When we finally stand, Shepard claps a hand to my shoulder. “Get some sleep, Gabe. Tomorrow’s a new day.”
I nod, though I don’t believe him. Tomorrow won’t erase tonight. Or yesterday. Or any of the sins piled up behind me.
But maybe it can be the start of something less destructive. At least, I hope so.