16. Bindi
SIXTEEN
BINDI
The smell hits me before I’m even fully conscious.
Bacon. Crispy, fatty, delicious fucking bacon. That perfect greasy sizzle that clings to the air and makes your stomach clench before your eyes even open.
I jolt upright, gasping. My heart stutters. Jordyn?
Maybe his trip got cut short. Maybe he came home early. Maybe—God, please—he’s in the kitchen, humming that stupid jazz playlist, making breakfast like it’s a Sunday morning and the world hasn’t collapsed.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and slip on a pair of shorts, his T-Shirt hanging just past them on my thighs. I throw my hair in a messy bun and head down the hallway, drawn by the smell, and the hope that whatever the fuck happened last night stays as just a stupid nightmare.
But halfway there, I hear the music.
Not jazz.
Not lo-fi indie or some playlist with a Scandinavian DJ name I can’t pronounce.
No. This is older. Like my teenage years, older .
Mayday Parade?
My breath catches. My steps freeze.
And suddenly, I’m back in eighth grade with an iPod he stole from some kid who called me a slut behind the gym.
We shared the earbuds, sprawled across a torn mattress in a group home, drowning in our own rage and noise.
He used to say music like this made him feel like he had bones. Like it held him together.
I move to the edge of the hallway, half-hidden behind the wall.
And there he is.
Cass.
Standing at the stove, Jordyn’s apron slung around his waist, tied crooked, combat boots still on. His black cargo pants are streaked with dirt, dried blood crusted near the knee. His shirt that he had on last night clings to his back, wrinkled and soaked with sweat.
And he’s dancing.
His hips swaying offbeat, head bobbing as he sings alone—very loud and off-key. He’s flipping bacon with a spatula, moving with a kind of joy that seems grossly out of place.
I should say something, yell at him for breaking in, but I just stand there and watch.
Because there’s something heartbreakingly familiar in the way he moves. Like we’re teenagers again, sneaking into the kitchen after everyone went to sleep and cooking a midnight snack with ingredients we stole from the supermarket.
Two plates sit on the island, eggs cooling, toast ready. Coffee steams from Jordyn’s favorite ceramic mug. A bowl of cut strawberries sits between them.
The song ends. He spins to reach for the coffee pot to refill his mug.
And then he sees me.
His eyes light up, like sunlight through storm clouds.
“Morning, Binx,” he says. His smile is lopsided, boyish, and infuriatingly warm. “I made you breakfast. Technically, I made it for Jordyn, considering this is his apartment and now yours, but he’s MIA, so . . . finders keepers.”
I stare at him. At the food, the apron, the music, the casual chaos he brings into every space he touches. And for one surreal second, I want to sit down and eat. I want to pretend this is what we are.
He gestures to the stool. “Sit. Eat.”
“You broke in,” I say, arms folded.
He shrugs. “Didn’t break anything. I guessed the alarm code.”
“That doesn’t make it legal.”
“I’m not here for legality, Binx. I’m here for you.”
I exhale through my nose, try not to scream, then, reluctantly, I sit down on the stool across from the kitchen island. He slides the plate toward me—bacon, eggs, toast with the edges burnt just the way I used to like it—exactly how I would’ve made it for myself.
“You hungry or not?” he asks. “I even did your eggs your way—runny, but not gross. Took me three tries.”
We eat in silence for a while. The bacon is perfect. The eggs are warm. The coffee is strong. And still, none of it feels safe. Because Cassidy isn’t calm.
He’s holding himself together with duct tape and delusion. Every smile he gives me is . . . forced. His hands are steady, but his knee bounces nonstop under the kitchen island.
“I’ve been thinking.”
Here it comes .
“I got a car. Some cash. We could be out of here in twenty minutes—Mexico by Friday. Or Canada, if you’re still obsessed with snow.”
“Cass.”
“There’s a diner outside Savannah with the best cherry pie. I read about it in a magazine. Thought of you.”
“Cass.”
He keeps going.
“I was thinking we dye our hair. You always wanted to go blonde, right? I could grow mine out again, stop shaving the sides. Maybe get some more tattoos?—”
“Cass!”
“We don’t have to stop, we just go. No more clubs. No more debt. Just gas stations and back roads—you and me. Like we always planned.”
“You’re not listening!” I snap.
“I am,” he insists, eyes wild. “I’m listening better than anyone ever has.”
I push my plate away. “Cassidy.”
He leans forward. “Don’t you want out?”
“Cassidy, who are you running from?”
He looks away. “I may have . . . dealt with some people . . . last night.”
I wait, but he doesn’t elaborate. “How many?” I ask.
“Three.”
I go still. “Who were they?”
“They followed me to the motel. I didn’t like that.”
My stomach drops—he’s talking about Anthony’s men. “So, you what? Talked them down? Paid them off?”
He meets my eyes, dead calm. “No, Binx, I killed them.”
“You killed them?”
He tilts his head and shrugs. “Maybe. Probably. Who knows. They pulled their guns first.”
“Jesus Christ, Cass.”
He smiles again. “Don’t worry. I cleaned it up.”
“Cleaned it up?”
“Got rid of the car, moved the bodies, and wiped the room. No prints or witnesses.”
I back away slowly. “You brought this to my door.”
“No.” He follows me around the kitchen island. “I technically brought this to Jordyn’s door.”
“You made me a fucking target.”
“No,” he says, his voice rising with mine before he lowers it. “I came for you. Do you think they’d stop with me? They’d come for you next. I did what I had to.”
THUD.
We freeze.
Then we hear it again.
THUD. THUD.
“Police,” a voice growls through the door.
My entire body turns to ice.
“Miami PD.”
Another hit, louder this time.
“It’s the fucking cops!” I whisper, backing toward the window. “Cass, you brought the fucking cops here!?”
“Get your shoes,” he says, voice flat.
“I—”
“Now.”
More pounding.
A second voice joins him. “She’s in there. So is Reyes.”
Cass grabs a gun from his duffel bag, checking the chamber.
Click.
“Run with me, Firefly.”