Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Trey
Demons – Imagine Dragons
The city’s still half-asleep when I slip out of Chace’s apartment. Vancouver at dawn has its own kind of quiet. Fog curls low over the water, the Seawall is slick with last night’s rain. My breath clouds the air, joining the mist that hugs the shoreline.
Security keeps pace a few steps behind. Always close. Different guys today.
I have no idea what their names are.
Shit. That’s a little fucked.
I should probably ask… but then I’ll look like an asshole who never bothered to learn their names.
Fuck—did Chace even introduce them?
Hands buried in the pocket of my hoodie, I keep my head down. Hood up. Jeans clinging damp where the air bites at them. My boots crunch against the grit on the path.
There’s a coffee cart set up near the marina—steam rising off the machine like it’s working harder than the guy pouring it.
I hand over a crumpled bill, fingers stiff with cold, and the paper cup nearly burns through my skin when I wrap both hands around it.
November chill cuts sharper near the water.
The Seawall curves out ahead of me, ocean lapping against stone. Gulls stalk the shoreline, white wings flashing when they take off. Somewhere out there, a horn sounds from a freighter moving through the fog. The whole city feels like it’s holding its breath.
I sit down on a bench, wood damp beneath me. Sip the coffee. It’s bitter, too hot, but it keeps my hands from going numb. I stare out at the harbor, at the ghost-shapes of boats rocking against their ropes, and all I can see is the inside of my head.
My father’s voice. The belt. The taste of blood when I bit my tongue to stay quiet. All the shit I’ve inked into my skin but never scrubbed out of my bones.
My chest tightens, breath catching in my throat. Doesn’t matter how many years pass—I can still feel the walls closing in like I’m that kid again, cornered, waiting for it.
Footsteps crunch soft behind me. Not the heavy rhythm of security. Lighter. Familiar.
I don’t need to look. I know.
Mac slides onto the bench beside me, quiet as the dawn. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask. Just… sits. Her thigh brushes mine, her warmth cutting through the damp. Her blonde hair peeks from under a knit beanie, curls wild around her face. She smells faintly of vanilla.
I let the silence hold us. It feels safer than words.
Then I move without thinking. I sling an arm around her shoulders, dragging her in against my side, my palm resting on her arm. She leans into me.
“Thank you,” I rasp. My voice cracks like gravel under tires.
“You don’t have to thank me, Trey.” Her voice is soft, threaded with the kind of certainty I’ll never have. “You’re my best friend. When you hurt, it hits different,” her fingers find mine, lacing them together. The contact steadies me in ways I don’t deserve.
“You don’t like showing your emotions—I get that.
But right now… after yesterday, today… I need you to know I’m here for you.
Always. If you need to talk or just sit and breathe.
I want to be beside you.” Her voice softens near the end, a yawn sneaking through the last few words.
I offer her the paper cup. She frowns, disentangles herself long enough to take a tentative sip, then her tongue pops out in the universal language of gross before she hands it back.
Her fingers tighten around mine. Her eyes meet mine, steady. “I know what it feels like to be lost, Trey. We don’t have to be lost alone.”
Something inside me shifts. Not broken—already broken—but like maybe the pieces aren’t floating so far apart.
I swallow hard, thumb brushing over the back of her hand. “Thanks.” I take another swig and scowl. “You always know what to say.”
She shakes her head, her mouth tugging at a small smile. “I don’t. I just say what I feel. And right now? I feel like you need someone to sit here with you until the sun finally shows up.”
So that’s what we do.
We sit.
The fog thins, the water turning from slate to silver as the light grows. My coffee cools in my hand. Her head leans against my shoulder. The city stirs awake, but for once, the noise inside me gets a little quiet. Not completely, but enough for me to be able to function better.
Her fingers are colder than mine. I don’t notice it at first, too busy watching the fog melt into light, but when her knuckles brush against my skin again, I feel it. Her hands are freezing.
“You’re shaking,” I mutter, glancing down at her. Her nose is pink, breath puffing out in clouds. “You didn’t even grab a jacket?”
She shrugs, eyes still on the water. “Didn’t want to waste time. You slipped out quick.”
I sigh, squeeze her hand once before letting go. “C’mon. Let’s get you inside before you turn into ice.”
We stand, my coffee long gone cold. Security falls into step a few paces behind as we head up from the seawall, sneakers slapping damp pavement.
The city’s starting to stir now—runners in neon jackets, a couple of cyclists flashing by with headlights still clipped to their bikes.
The air tastes like rain, heavy and metallic.
There’s a café on the corner, lights glowing warm through fogged-up windows. The smell hits before the door even swings open—fresh bread, sugar, that rich burn of coffee. My chest eases, just a little, as the heat rolls over us.
We find a booth by the window, the vinyl seat cracked at the edges but soft with years of use.
I peel my hood back, run a hand through damp hair.
Mac tugs off her beanie, curls spilling out wild, and presses her hands to the coffee mug when the server drops it off.
She closes her eyes like she could soak the warmth straight through her skin.
“Better?” I ask, leaning back against the booth.
She opens one eye at me, smiling faintly. “Much.”
I nod, tracing the rim of my own mug.
We sit in silence for a bit, the kind that doesn’t itch. Just the hum of the espresso machine, the low murmur of two old guys in the corner arguing over hockey stats, the clink of cups behind the counter.
Finally, Mac says softly, “You looked so far away back there.”
I don’t answer right away. My thumb drags across the chipped ceramic, back and forth. I can feel her eyes on me, patient, waiting.
“Sometimes, it feels like it never left,” I say finally. My voice is low, but it carries enough. “The shit with my dad. Doesn’t matter how many years… it’s still here.” I tap a fist against my chest. “Like a fresh tattoo.”
Mac’s face softens, but she doesn’t try to fix it. Doesn’t give me the clichés. That’s why I trust her.
“Then let me carry some of it with you,” she says simply. “That’s what best friends are for.”
I huff out a breath, almost a laugh. “You sure? My baggage isn’t exactly carry-on size.”
She grins, shaking her head. “I’m stronger than I look.”
Mac blows across her mug, curls sticking to her damp lips, and squints at me over the steam. “You know, you could at least pretend you slept. Right now, you look like the walking dead.”
I snort, leaning back in the booth, arms stretched along the top. “Thanks, Macadamia. Exactly the confidence boost I needed before sunrise.”
Her smile tilts. “I mean it, Trey. You’ve got that whole raccoon thing going on. Dark circles, twitchy eyes. If you start digging in the trash, I’m calling Animal Control.”
I lift my mug like a toast. “At least raccoons are resourceful. Survivors. Besides, they’re kinda cute if you look past the teeth.”
She rolls her eyes, takes a sip. “Yeah, that’s you. Cute if you ignore the teeth.”
I flash her my widest grin, dragging a hand across my front like I’m showing off a prize. “People pay good money for this smile.”
She nearly chokes on her coffee, coughing through her laugh. “Oh my god, you are so full of yourself.”
“Full of coffee,” I correct, tapping the side of my mug. “Big difference.”
She sets her cup down, still laughing, and shakes her head. “You’re ridiculous.”
I shrug, smirking. “And yet, here you are, voluntarily sitting across from me. So, what does that say about you?”
“That I’m a saint,” she fires back instantly.
“A saint?” I lean in, eyebrows up. “That’s a stretch. You’re more like… a grumpy angel with coffee breath.”
Her eyes widen in mock horror. “Excuse me? You’re one to talk. You downed half your cup in two gulps — your breath could probably strip paint.”
I grin, leaning closer across the table. “Then it’s a good thing your hair’s already blonde. Can’t fade it any more than that.”
She mock gasps, hand to her chest.
I laugh, the sound scraping out of me easier than it should. The kind that starts in my chest and shakes something loose.
Mac watches me, a smile tugging at her mouth, softer now. “See? That’s better. I like it when you laugh. Makes you look less haunted.”
The words settle into me like warmth, even as I roll my eyes to deflect. “Haunted is my brand, Mac. Don’t take that away from me.”
She leans back, smirking. “Fine. You can keep your tortured rockstar aesthetic. Just… maybe let people see you smile once in a while. You’re less terrifying that way.”
“Less terrifying?” I chuckle, shaking my head. “I’m not terrifying. I’m—”
“Broody. Moody. Intense.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “Oh, and don’t forget dramatic.”
I throw my head back against the booth, groaning loud enough for the two old guys in the corner to glance over. “God, you sound like my press reviews.”
She grins, victorious. “That’s because I’m right.”
I glance at her, smirk tugging at my lips despite myself. “You’re lucky you’re my best friend, Mac. Anyone else would’ve been murdered already.”
She lifts her mug again, casual. “Please. You’d never survive without me.”
She’s right. I wouldn’t.