26. Shepherd
SHEPHERD
The familiar smell of sawdust and wood stain greets me as I flip on the lights of the garage. My workshop is the one place where everything makes sense. Where problems have solutions. Where broken things can be made whole again.
I grab a block of cherry wood I’ve been saving and secure it in the lathe.
There’s something about the wood—the way it feels solid and warm under my fingers, the way it holds secrets in its grain—that calms the storm inside me.
I flip the switch, and the machine hums to life, drowning out the thoughts racing through my head.
I lose myself in the work, letting muscle memory guide my hands.
The wood turns against the blade, shavings falling at my feet like autumn leaves.
With each pass, the shape emerges, something small and delicate.
I don’t plan these things anymore. My hands know what they want to create before my mind catches up.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I nearly slice my finger open in my rush to grab it thinking it’s Sutton.
But it’s just Killian.
Kill
You still up?
Me
Yeah.
Kill
She talk to you yet?
Me
No.
I set the phone down and return to the lathe. The wood takes form beneath my touch, a small teacup with delicate sides that curve like water frozen in motion. My ribs ache with every movement, but the pain keeps me present, keeps me from spiraling into the dark places my mind wants to go.
I don’t know how long I’ve been working when I hear it; the soft click of the door connecting the garage to the house. My hands are still on the lathe, but I don’t turn around. I can feel her presence, hesitant and uncertain in the doorway.
“Does it hurt?” Sutton’s voice is quiet, almost lost beneath the hum of the machine.
I switch off the lathe, the sudden silence deafening. “My ribs?” I ask, still not turning. “Or something else?”
She doesn’t answer right away. She moves farther into my space, the sanctuary I’ve created for myself that now holds her too.
“I guess I deserved that.” Her admission hangs in the air between us as guilt rains over me.
Don’t be an asshole Haynes.
She doesn’t deserve that.
“No, you don’t. I’m sorry.” I still don’t turn around, afraid that any sudden movement might scare her away. My hands remain on the lathe, fingers tracing the curves of the half-finished teacup.
“I didn’t mean to shut you out,” she says, her voice closer now.
I nod, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. “I know.”
The workshop feels smaller with her in it, the air thicker somehow. I can smell her—that mix of vanilla and something uniquely her—and it makes my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with my bruised ribs.
“What are you making?” she asks.
I note the deliberate change of subject. “A teacup.” I finally turn to face her, leaning back against the workbench to take the pressure off my ribs. “For your collection.”
She stands there in the doorway, swimming in my hoodie, her wet hair loose around her shoulders.
She looks small and vulnerable but still so fucking pretty.
The sight of her hits me harder than any tackle could.
All I want to do is cross the room and pull her into my arms. But I don’t. Instead, I wait.
Something flickers across her face. Surprise, maybe, mixed with an obvious sadness. “You make teacups?” she asks softly, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of my hoodie.
“No.” I clear my throat, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Not usually. It just kind of…happened and I thought…” I take a deep breath.
“I thought maybe it could be the first one in your collection that isn’t broken.
” I run my finger along the wood grain. “The world has a lot of brokenness already and I thought maybe this time…it needs to be reminded how strong it really is. How strong it can be.”
Her eyes fill with tears so quickly I almost miss it before she blinks them away. She steps closer, her eyes fixed on the teacup rather than on me. I can see the tension in her shoulders, the careful way she’s holding herself, like she’s afraid she might shatter if she relaxes too much.
“I knew him,” she says suddenly, her voice so quiet I almost miss it. “Micah,” she clarifies, though she doesn’t need to. “I knew him. Before.”
My heart slams against my bruised ribs. I stay perfectly still, afraid that even breathing too loudly might make her stop talking. “Okay,” I say carefully.
“You never mentioned him before. That he worked for the team.”
“I…” I shrug helplessly. “I’m sorry. I had no idea you knew anyone with the team or I would have told you in a heartbeat.”
“I didn’t know he was working for the Rush. Had I known I probably would’ve never even spoken to you.”
“Sutton.” I shake my head, confused. “I don’t understand.”
“We have…history.” Her voice catches on the word. She wraps her arms around herself, like she’s trying to hold something in.
Or keep something out.
And with one simple gesture, everything starts to click.
“Bad history?” I ask, though I already know the answer. I’ve seen enough to know that whatever happened between them wasn’t good.
She nods once, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere past my shoulder. “The worst kind.”
Her words hang in the air between us like smoke, heavy and choking. I wait, giving her the space to continue or retreat, though every cell in my body screams to move closer, to hold her, to shield her from whatever pain Micah Brannigan represents.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I say, though it kills me to say it. “Not if you’re not ready. You don’t owe me anything.”
She looks at me then, really looks at me, her dark eyes searching my face. “I do, though. I think I do.” She takes a deep breath that shakes her whole body. “Because it’s going to keep happening.”
My jaw clenches. “What’s going to keep happening?”
“This.” She gestures vaguely between us. “Me shutting down. Running away. And you not understanding why.”
I nod slowly, careful not to move too suddenly despite the adrenaline surging through me.
She’s here.
She’s talking.
She’s trying.
“I’m listening,” I say softly. “Whatever you want to tell me.”
Sutton moves closer, her fingers reaching out to touch the half-finished teacup on the lathe. She traces its curves, her touch gentle, almost reverent.
“I was nineteen,” she says finally. “Working as a waitress near campus…before I ever came to Portland.” Her voice gets softer with each word.
“He was twenty-two. A football player with all the confidence and swagger girls like me would swoon over. He was the kind of guy who knew exactly what to say.”
I watch her carefully, trying to keep my expression neutral as dread pools in my stomach. I already know where this story is going, and it’s taking everything in me not to react.
“He made me feel special,” she continues. “Like I was the only girl in the world who mattered, you know? And I believed him because…” She swallows hard. “Because I wanted to believe someone could see me that way.”
My heart cracks open a little more with each word. I want to reach for her, but I force myself to stay still, to give her the space to tell her truth without interruption.
“It was good at first. Or I thought it was. Looking back, I can see all the red flags, but back then?” She shakes her head. “I was so desperate to be loved that I missed them all.”
She moves away from the lathe, pacing the small workshop like a caged animal, wrapping her arms tightly around herself as she moves.
“He didn’t hit me,” she says suddenly, as if anticipating my question. “Not at first. It was…subtler than that. The way he’d criticize what I wore. How he’d get angry if I talked to other guys. How he’d make me feel like I was lucky he even wanted me.”
Her words cut like glass, each one sliding beneath my skin. I’ve never wanted to hurt someone as badly as I want to hurt Micah Brannigan right now. The rage builds in my chest, mixing with the ache in my ribs until I can barely breathe.
“He was so good at making me doubt myself,” she continues, her voice hollow. “If I wore something he didn’t like, I was asking for attention. If I talked to another guy, I was disrespectful. If I didn’t want to have sex, I was frigid. But if I told him I wanted it, I was desperate.”
She stops pacing, her back to me, shoulders hunched. “There was no winning. No right choice. Just…surviving him.”
I grip the edge of my workbench to keep myself from crossing the room and pulling her into my arms. I need to let her finish. I need to hear all of it, no matter how much it hurts.
“It got worse,” she says quietly. “The control. The jealousy. The way he’d twist everything until I couldn’t trust my own thoughts anymore.”
I clench my jaw so hard I think my teeth might crack. “When did it change?” I ask quietly, though I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.
Sutton stops pacing and stares at the floor.
“After about six months. He…he got cut from the team. Started drinking more. That’s when the hitting started.
The first time he hit me was after I’d been talking to one of his former teammates at a party.
I wasn’t even flirting. We were just talking.
” Her fingers trace invisible patterns on the workbench.
“When we got home, he threw me against the wall so hard I couldn’t breathe.
Said I’d humiliated him. That I was nothing without him. ”
Mother fucker…
My vision blurs with rage. I breathe through my nose, trying to keep my expression neutral despite the violence churning inside me.