27. Maren
Maren
S tretching, I feel the familiar ache of muscles that have been still too long. The sheets beside me are rumpled and still warm. He carried me to bed. And stayed, judging by the scent of him in my bed.
I grumble into my pillow, hating how I don't actually hate it. The sound of cabinet doors opening and closing in the kitchen confirms he's still here, making himself at home like he belongs.
I drag myself upright, trying to ignore how my t-shirt smells like him now. Running my fingers through my tangled hair, I twist it into a messy bun as I pad barefoot across the cold floor.
When I round the corner, Riggs is standing at my counter, his back to me. He's wearing a hoodie that hangs loose on his broad frame, and a pair of his basketball shorts I've definitely seen before. The domesticity of it makes something twist uncomfortably in my chest like it usually does.
He turns, two mugs in hand, and his eyes do that thing—that slow-motion sweep from my face down to my bare legs and back up. Like he's cataloging every inch.
“Morning, nightmare.” His voice is morning-rough as he extends one of the mugs toward me.
I take it without a word; the warmth seeping into my palms. Before I can step back, he crowds me against the counter, one arm braced on either side of me. The coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim.
“You look good in my hoodie,” I say, the words slipping out before my brain fully engages.
Riggs' laugh is sudden and loud, his head tipping back. “This is my hoodie. You stole it.”
I narrow my eyes, taking a deliberate sip of coffee before responding. “If it's in my apartment, it's mine. That's how possession works.”
“Is that how it works?” His voice drops lower as he leans in, his lips brushing my ear. “Then what does that make me?”
“A trespasser,” I mutter, but there's no heat behind it.
“You sure about that?” His hand comes up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear.
The smell of smoke hits my nostrils before my brain fully processes what's happening.
“Your pancakes are burning,” I say, ducking under his arm to escape the cage he's made around me.
“Fuck!” Riggs spins around, lunging for the stove where a thin plume of black smoke rises from what was probably intended to be breakfast.
I lean against the counter, sipping my coffee and watching him scrape the charred remains into the trash.
There are grocery bags on the counter that definitely weren't there yesterday—eggs, milk, flour, and a bottle of real maple syrup, not the corn syrup crap I usually buy when I bother to shop at all.
“When did you go shopping?” I ask, eyeing the bags. “I definitely didn't have pancake stuff.”
“You didn't have any food at all,” he mutters, wiping down the pan. “Unless you count hot sauce and expired yogurt as a balanced diet.”
“Hey, there was also beer.”
“Right. How could I forget the nutritional value of cheap beer?” He pours fresh batter into the pan, his movements more careful this time. “I went out while you were sleeping. Figured you'd be less likely to stab me for leaving if I came back with food.”
I hide my smile behind my mug. “Bold of you to assume I wouldn't stab you for other reasons.”
“Oh, I'm counting on it.” He flashes that infuriating grin over his shoulder. “Just not before breakfast.”
The kitchen fills with the smell of pancakes—real ones this time, not the burnt offerings from before. My stomach growls traitorously.
“There are blueberries in that bag,” he says, nodding toward one of the grocery sacks. “If you want to make yourself useful.”
“I don't recall asking for a short-order cook,” I grumble, but I set down my mug and reach for the berries.
“No, but your stomach did.” He flips a perfectly golden pancake. “Besides, I was hungry, and you're always a nightmare before you eat.”
I dump a handful of blueberries into the remaining batter. “I'm a nightmare after I eat too.”
I hop up onto the counter, letting my legs dangle as I watch him work. There's something unsettling about how comfortable he looks in my kitchen, like he belongs here. Like this is something we do.
“You don't have to cook for me,” I say, the words coming out more defensive than I intended.
“I know.” He slides a perfect golden pancake onto a plate. “I want to.”
It's weird having breakfast with someone who's seen me kill a man.
We sit at my tiny kitchen table, which has never been used for actual meals until now. The stack of pancakes between us is perfectly golden, dotted with bursts of blue. I pour an obscene amount of syrup over mine, watching it pool around the edges of my plate.
I’m halfway finished eating when my fork halts before it reaches my mouth. The food turns to sawdust on my tongue as something heavy settles in my chest.
I could tell him. Right now.
The thought ambushes me from nowhere, and suddenly I can't look away from him.
My stepfather's face flashes through my mind—not the dead version with the knife in his throat, but the living one.
The one with hands that took whatever they wanted.
The one with the smile that no one else could see through.
Riggs cuts another piece of pancake, seemingly oblivious to my staring. But his eyes flick up briefly, meeting mine before returning to his plate. He doesn't ask or push.
The words are right there, building pressure behind my teeth. I could just say it. Just open my mouth and let it all spill out—the years of quiet terror, the locked bedroom doors that never stayed locked, the way my mother looked the other way. The night I finally snapped.
But if I start talking, will I be able to stop? And what happens when he finally sees all of me—not just the broken pieces he finds so fascinating, but the putrid, rotting core of who I am?
Riggs glances up again, his expression neutral save for the slight raise of one eyebrow.
“These are good,” I force myself to say instead, shoving another bite into my mouth.
“Surprising, right? Turns out I can do more than just burn shit.” He smirks, but his eyes linger on my face a beat too long.
He knows I was about to say something else. Of course he does. Riggs sees too much, always has.
“My stepfather used to make pancakes,” I hear myself say, the words slipping out before I can catch them. My heart hammers against my ribs as I watch Riggs go still.
“Yeah?” His voice is carefully casual, but his focus is absolute now.
I nod, pushing blueberries around my plate. “Sunday mornings. Big fucking production. I haven’t had pancakes in a long time, never wanted them. Well, until now. Thank you for changing that fucking memory for me.”
I stare at the syrup pooling on my plate, watching the light catch in its amber depths. My fingers tighten around my fork, and I notice the tremor in my hands before I can hide it.
“It wasn't just pancakes he did on Sundays.”
Riggs goes completely still. The kitchen seems to shrink around us; the air growing heavy. He sets down his fork with careful precision.
“Luke, he had this whole routine.” My voice sounds strange to my own ears, like it's coming from somewhere else. “Pancakes in the morning. Football in the afternoon. And me, whenever he wanted.”
I can't look at Riggs as the words start spilling out. It's like a dam breaking, years of filthy water finally finding release.
“It started when I was fifteen. Little touches at first. Nothing my mother would notice at all, or maybe she just didn't want to.
He'd call me his 'special girl.'” The words taste like battery acid on my tongue.
“Said I was asking for it, wearing those shorts, looking at him that way. I wasn't. I fucking wasn't.”
The syrup on my plate blurs as my eyes burn. I blink hard, refusing to cry.
“He had friends. Sports buddies. Good ol' boys with wedding rings and daughters my age. They'd come over to watch games, drink beer. And sometimes...” My throat closes up. I force myself to swallow. “Sometimes Luke would send my mother on errands. And then he'd send me upstairs with one of them.”
I hear Riggs' sharp intake of breath, but I can't stop now.
“Three years. Three fucking years before I figured out how to disappear inside my head while it happened. Before I learned to lock everything away where it couldn't touch me.”
My hands are shaking so badly that the fork clatters against the plate. I set it down, pressing my palms flat against the table.
“The night I killed him, he'd invited two of them over. Said it was time I learned to 'handle more than one at a time.’”
The silence that follows feels endless. I finally look up, bracing for disgust or pity or worse.
Instead, I find something I don't recognize. Something raw and terrible.
“Say something,” I whisper.
Riggs' jaw works, the muscle ticking beneath his skin. When he finally speaks, his voice is dangerously soft.
“I should have been the one to kill him.”
It's not what I expected. Not sympathy or horror or questions about why I didn't tell someone, run away, fight back sooner—all the useless things people say when they hear stories like mine.
“If I'd known...” He stops, his knuckles white where he grips the edge of the table. “I would have made it last longer.”
A laugh bubbles up from my throat, breaking into jagged pieces. I look at him, really look at him, and what I see makes my breath catch.
He's shaking, his face a mask of rage, but not at me. For me.
“You're the first person I've ever told,” I admit, voice barely above a whisper. “The whole thing.”
Riggs stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. For one heart-stopping moment, I think he's leaving. Instead, he circles the table and pulls me to my feet, wrapping his arms around me so tightly I can barely breathe.
I stiffen at first, the contact overwhelming, but then something inside me cracks open. I press my face against his chest, inhaling the scent of him as his heartbeat thunders against my ear.
“You still want me after that?” The question slips out, small and broken.
His hand tangles in my hair, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. Those eyes burn into mine, fierce and certain.
“I want all of you. Every part of you, but especially the parts you think are ruined.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. I try to look away, but he holds me firmly, refusing to let me hide.
“I'm not some fucking project you can fix,” I warn him, my voice raw.
“Good. I don't want to fix you.” His thumb traces the curve of my cheek. “I just want you. Exactly as you are.”
“Even the parts that kill people?”
“Especially those parts.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “They're my favorite.”
I laugh, the sound wet and strange. My fingers curl into the fabric of his hoodie—my hoodie—as I try to anchor myself against the sensation of falling.
“I don't know how to do this,” I confess.
“Do what?”
“Let someone in. Be…whatever this is.”
Riggs' arms tighten around me. “We'll figure it out. Day by day.”
“What if I fuck it up?” The fear is real, pressing against my ribs. “What if I'm too broken for this?”
“Then we'll be broken together.” He presses his lips to my forehead, the gesture so tender it hurts.