Chapter 17
Chapter seventeen
Trey
Open Your Eyes – Snow Patrol
She’s asleep before I even realize she’s gone quiet.
Head tilted against my stomach, breath slow and steady, one hand still clutching the blanket like someone might steal it if she lets go.
Oh, shit. She’s out cold.
Now I don’t want to move. This is awkward as hell.
Slow and consistent, right? Like easing out from under her?
Nah. Quick and clean. Tablecloth trick. Boom—gone.
Except I don’t move. I should—ease her down, tuck her in, turn off the light, do something.
But my body’s like, nah, let’s just stay right here and contemplate life like a fucking weirdo.
Is this…is this what moms feel when they tuck their kids in?
Am I a mom now?
Mother of nuns.
Wait—they have, like, a Mother Superior, right? The boss nun?
Leader of the penguins.
If she's also called a sister, does that make us her brother?
Omg, "wincest" could be a thing. Gonna get all Game of Throney up in this—
My charge lets out a little content sigh that warms me in all the wrong places, yet still, I don’t move.
Because she’s right here—this impossible girl—with her face pressed against my abs, like I’m safe to be around.
Spoiler alert. I’m not.
But she doesn’t know that. Or maybe she does and doesn’t care.
Her hair spills across my stomach, soft against my skin, copper catching the low light. I pick up a curl, twist it between my fingers. It slides through, wild and smooth.
I’ve never done this before—this staying still thing. I don’t do soft. I don’t do gentle.
Usually it’s…yeah, she’s satisfied, I’ve blown my load, time to bounce.
Or, the classics…
Thanks, Trey. Can I meet Logan?
Like I’m a steppingstone on the way to the headliners.
Disposable.
Fine. Maybe that’s easier. Because the truth? I’m not built for keeping.
Braden would lose it if he saw me now.
He’d call me a simp, then tell me to stop acting like I’m broken.
Tell me I’m fine the way I am.
He’d be wrong, but I’d let him say it.
For a second, I just breathe.
Her warmth seeps into me. Her quiet, her stillness—it sinks under my ribs like a hum I don’t recognize.
Peace.
It shouldn’t be there.
I twitch.
I squirm.
My life’s been built on noise and motion and damage control. I don’t know what to do with peace—it feels like wearing someone else’s skin.
My hands—calloused, scarred—were made for chaos.
For fighting it. Containing it. Dragging it off people who didn’t deserve it.
My body? A scrapbook of old wounds, covered in ink and pretty lies.
A canvas of bad decisions.
Mom called it expression.
Dad called it discipline.
I called it survival.
Now, I just sit here, staring at her—this woman who sleeps through my static—and I think, maybe Braden was right.
Maybe I’m not broken.
Just…bent...twisted.
While the peace lasts—while this woman sleeps with her copper hair fanned out like fire, body tucked beneath the mercy of the duvet—I take a slow breath. Steadying myself.
Because the fucked-up thing is…this feels nice.
Christ. It feels good.
I was raised on noise and fists and broken glass.
Don’t show weakness. Don’t cry. Don’t feel.
Guess what? Didn’t stick.
Now I’m a walking cartoon of a man. A certified Looney Tune.
Bonafide Bugs Bunny with trauma.
The storm inside me starts to rise, hot and familiar. My fist almost clenches, that urge crawling up my throat—howl at the moon, punch a wall, break something before it breaks me. But my hand’s tangled in her hair.
So instead, I breathe.
In for four.
Hold for four.
Out for four.
Hold again.
Yeah. Magic fucking box breathing.
Just like that, the noise quiets.
The inner shit shuts the fuck up.
The outer shit backs off.
My freakout takes a coffee break.
I can think again.
I tilt my head back, exhale slow.
The TV glows faint blue across the room—some movie menu frozen mid-frame. Outside, headlights smear across wet glass. Laughter echoes faintly from the street below.
Normal sounds.
Normal life.
I glance down. My fingers still in her curls. She looks so damn peaceful. Her brow creases like she’s dreaming, and I wonder what about.
I think about what she’s told me—her father, the church, Gideon, her so-called fiancé.
Then I think about what she hasn’t said.
The way she flinches when I move too fast.
How she watches me like she’s waiting for the blow that never comes.
She doesn’t deserve any of that.
My jaw tightens. I can still feel the echo of my old man’s fists, the sting in my ribs that never really faded.
Back then, I’d brace for it.
Oh, Dad lost another fight? Cool, time for another ass-kicking and a speech on how to be a man.
Mom would be drinking. I’d play hero—put myself between them, thinking maybe if I took it all, they’d stop hurting each other.
They didn’t.
Mom didn’t stop drinking.
Dad didn’t stop being angry.
And me? I started sweating every time I heard a door slam.
I run a hand over my face, exhale through my nose.
Sera’s the same kind of brave—quiet, unknowing, too used to pain to call it what it is.
And I hate it.
I hate that I understand it so damn well.
My thumb brushes her temple. “I’m gonna keep you safe, Dove,” I whisper. “I swear it.”
Then my brain immediately chimes in… Please stop touching the sleeping girl, bro. You’re giving off 1960s Disney energy.
Right.
Not Prince Charming.
But then my subconscious pipes up again, smug bastard that it is…
You know Dove means peace, right?
Oh, it knew. It’s been sitting on that revelation for hours like it’s clever.
No shit, Sherlock. Go to sleep, you sassy twat.
Still…it fits her.
Not because she’s delicate or pigeon-like—though she looks it now, soft and small—but because she’s alive.
A symbol of peace.
Of survival.
Of the quiet kind of purity that comes from crawling out of hell and still choosing to be kind.
And me?
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.
I don’t know how to be this kind of man—the kind who stays.
Who offers warmth instead of being the moral of a fable called Don’t Stick Your Dick in the Outlet.
But when I look at her now—hair a mess across my stomach, breath syncing with mine—I know one thing for sure.
I want to do better.
Be better.
For her.
I let out a slow breath, dragging my hand through her hair again, softer this time.
The strands catch on my calluses, and I realize how rough I am—how rough everything about me is.
But she doesn’t seem to mind. She shifts slightly, curling closer, her cheek pressing against my abs, and my heart stumbles.
I freeze.
No one’s ever done this before.
No one’s ever trusted me enough to fall asleep on me like I’m safe ground.
I let out a quiet laugh, low in my throat.
She’d take off like her hair was on fire if she heard half the shit rattling around inside my skull.
Can’t blame her. Hell, I scare myself sometimes.
Her only answer is a soft sigh—a little hum that vibrates through me, straight to places that really shouldn’t be reacting right now.
I should pull away.
I should keep my distance.
It would be the smart thing to do. The right thing. The one thing that might actually protect her.
But instead, I lie down beside her.
Slow. Careful. Like I’m trying not to wake a sleeping dragon—or an angel with really questionable taste in men.
The mattress dips under my weight, and she shifts slightly, her head finding my chest like it’s been there a thousand times before.
Yeah. I’m screwed.
The city hums outside—cars, laughter. The sound seeps through the window, but it feels far away, muffled by the quiet pulse of her breath against my ribs.
Her warmth spreads through me, slow and heavy, until I can’t quite tell where she ends and I begin. Like we’ve blurred at the edges, smudged together by accident.
Then my phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Of course it does.
The sound slices through the calm like a knife, and I groan under my breath, trying to reach for it without moving too much.
Half-asleep, half-panicking—because yeah, I might be comfortable as hell, but my arm’s numb, my back’s on fire, and I’m ninety percent sure my leg’s dead.
Worth it. Still worth it.
The screen lights up.
[NEW MESSAGE IN GROUPCHAT]
Mac<3: We’re here. Meet in the kitchen?
A second ping follows right after.
Chace: You okay, man?
I glance down at Seraphina—her face soft in the low light, lashes fanned across her cheeks—and exhale.
Still asleep. Peaceful.
Meanwhile, I’m over here startled, uncomfortable, and borderline emotional.
My thumb hovers over the phone before I type back, keeping it simple.
Trey: Yeah. I’ll be right down.
The screen dims again, fading into the dark, the hum of the city swallowing the sound.
For a second, I just sit here, phone in hand, her breath steady against me—wondering how the hell a night this quiet can feel louder than a sold-out stadium.
I move slow, careful not to wake her. The pizza box sits cold on the nightstand, half-finished and congealed like every bad life choice I’ve ever made.
For a second, I just stand there, watching her breathe. My chest feels too small for what’s inside it. Then I drag a hand through my hair, straighten myself up, and slip out.
The boarding house is dead quiet when I ease into the hallway.
Dark. By the time I hit the bottom step, the kitchen door creaks open.
Mac’s first through—long coat, messy bun, eyes sharp. She finds me instantly, like she’s been waiting since the second that text went through.
Behind her come the guys—Logan, Chace, and Sam—all serious, all looking like they’ve come for an intervention.
Spoiler…they probably have.
No one says a word. Just the hum of the fridge and rain whispering against the windows.
Then Mac crosses the room, one eyebrow raised.
“Lay it on me, Trey. Am I going to be an auntie, or did you join a cult?”
“Hello, sister dear,” I grin. “And, yes, to both—it’s how I roll.”
There’s a grunt from behind her as Logan pushes past, Sam close behind. Chace hangs back, already regretting showing up.
“Sounded serious,” Sam says. “Logan skipped physio for this.”