Chapter 8 Saints Never Sleep
EIGHT
SAINTS NEVER SLEEP
ARIA
The first thing I feel is the ghost of his hands, warm even in memory, like Isaiah touched my face before slipping away. For one suspenseful breath, I let myself believe he’s still here with me.
A half-memory stirs of the weight of him leaning close, his voice low against my hair, the brush of lips against my temple.
A goodbye disguised as something gentler.
Something almost tender. Something I’m not ready to name.
It’s the kind of half-memory that shouldn’t matter, but it roots itself deep, pulling me back to last night.
When I open my eyes, the other side of the cot is empty. The blanket holds the shape of his body, a hollow warmth fading too fast. Isaiah’s scent of leather, smoke, and cold wind lingers, and it hits like the kind of longing I used to pretend I’d outgrown.
I sit up slowly, fingers tracing the warmth he left behind. My chest tightens with the kind of ache that feels like being found and abandoned in the same heartbeat.
When I swing my legs over the side of the cot, something slips from the blanket and clinks onto the floor.
A ring.
Tama’s ring.
I pick it up, heavy and warm, like it’s been waiting. The engraving catches the thin sunlight sneaking through the frosted window. Earn peace.
“Of course you’d do this,” I whisper, voice cracking. “You’d leave the one thing you never could let go.”
And somehow… leave it for me.
I clutch the ring to my chest, letting the heat of it bleed into my skin before I force myself to move.
My clothes are still scattered where we dropped them.
My boots tipped on their sides, jeans twisted in a heap near the cot, my sweater tangled beneath his shirt.
I dress slowly, like every layer is a reminder.
The denim is stiff with cold, the sweater still carrying the faintest trace of him.
When I pull on my coat, my breath hitches.
Isaiah’s flannel is sitting next to my coat.
I fold it carefully, press it to my face once, then tuck it into my bag instead of leaving it behind.
I lace my boots with shaking fingers, the world already creeping back in, already stealing the quiet night we carved out of the storm.
When I finally stand, I close my fist around the ring again. A promise. A burden. A memory I’m not ready to give back.
The world outside is painfully bright when I open the garage door. Fresh snow glitters across the hills, untouched except for a single line of footprints leading away, already fading like he couldn’t let the storm take me, but couldn’t stay either.
I follow them with my eyes until the wind swallows the last trace of him. He left me his grief. He left me his hope. He left me the decision of what to do with both.
By the time the roads reopen, I’m packed, layered, and pretending I’m composed. The ring sits in my palm the whole drive back, warm, like it remembers his skin.
The closer I get to the city, the more everything feels wrong. The skyline rises cold and unfamiliar. Cars hiss through slush. People move fast, loud, untouched by storms or Saints or the things we bury under snow.
When I push through the office doors, the blast of fluorescent light and recycled air almost knocks the breath out of me. Leah spots me instantly, leaning on my desk with her latte like she’s been waiting to pounce.
“Well…” she says slowly. “Someone looks like she just got back from either a crime scene or a very good night.”
I was prepared for this, or at least I thought I was. Turns out I’m a terrible liar today.
“I got snowed in,” I say, dropping my bag on my desk.
“With who?” she shoots back instantly.
“No one.”
Leah’s eyebrows climb. “Try that again. This time without holding that thing like it’s a live grenade.”
I look down. The ring glints in my hand.
Shit.
Her jaw drops. “Aria. Tell me that is not what I think it is.”
“It’s just…” It’s him. “Closure.” The lie tastes like blood. “That’s all.”
Leah folds her arms, staring at me like she’s watching a woman walk willingly into a burning building. “Closure doesn’t look like a commitment ring from a dead Saint.”
“It was Tama’s,” I whisper before I can stop myself. “Steel… he… left it.”
Leah’s expression softens. “Aria.”
“I know,” I say quickly. “I know what you’re thinking. And no, I didn’t go back. I didn’t choose him. The storm trapped me there. That’s it.”
But the moment I say the words, Steel’s grey eyes flash behind them, hungry, hurting, honest in all the ways he never lets himself be.
Leah doesn’t believe a word of it. But she lets it slide, maybe because she sees how close I am to unraveling, and returns to her desk.
I make it through the day on autopilot, answering emails, prepping for court, and the normal law office garbage.
Every time I lift a stack of files, the ring shifts in my pocket.
Every time I blink, I smell motor oil. Every time someone speaks, I hear Isaiah’s voice instead.
Leah watches me like I might shatter into dust if the wrong person says my name.
The day drags on in a blur of emails, court prep, and Leah watching me like I’m about to fall apart in the supply closet. I keep telling myself the ring in my pocket isn’t burning a hole through my coat, that no one can smell motor oil and fire on me anymore.
But I can.
Every time I shift in my chair, my jacket moves and the faintest trace of smoke, winter, leather worn soft at the collar rises. The smell hits harder than it should. Harder than I’ll ever admit aloud.
Phones ring. Lawyers argue in the hallway. The world keeps spinning like mine didn’t crack open somewhere between the storm and his mouth on mine.
The office lights flicker once, then hum steadily overhead, just enough to make my pulse jump. It’s ridiculous. He’s miles away, avoiding me, and I’m reading ghosts in the shadows.
I fake my way through the rest of the afternoon. Numb smile. Steady typing. Pretending I’m present when my pulse is still back in that garage.
When five o’clock creeps past and the building begins to empty, something in me finally caves. I can’t breathe in this place anymore. I shut my laptop like I’m trying to keep my thoughts from spilling out.
Grabbing my bag, I look at Leah. “I’m fine.” She gives me a look that says you’re not, but lets me go.
The slow elevator ride down feels too quiet. My reflection stares back at me like a woman who hasn’t slept in years.
Cold slaps my face when I step outside and into the parking garage. Purple, thick dusk has already settled over the city, heavy like a bruise.
I climb into my car, shut myself inside, and for a full minute, I just sit there gripping the steering wheel with shaking hands. The ring shifts in my pocket with every shallow breath I take.
“Get it together,” I whisper. But I don’t. Not really.
The drive home is a smear of headlights and slush, traffic crawling through streets lined with dirty snowbanks.
Every red light feels like a pause I don’t want.
Every quiet moment curls back to the memory of Isaiah’s hands on my spine, the rough scrape of his voice at my ear, the way he said my name like it hurt him to want me.
When I finally pull onto my street, something in me unwinds just enough to breathe again. I’m exhausted by the effort of pretending I’m ok. My small house stands quiet in the fading light, snow piled against the porch steps, curtains drawn like it’s been waiting for me to return.
I sit there for a long second, engine ticking as it cools. Then I grab my bag, step out into the cold, and cross the walk to my front door.
The moment I step inside, the warmth wraps around me. My house smells like lavender and old books and the faint lemon cleaner I used before the storm. Familiar, safe, mine. But even here, the air feels wrong without Isaiah.
I stand at the window, the small town glowing cold around me. The ring sits in my palm again, heavy with meaning I’m not ready to unravel.
After a long moment, I walk to my bedroom and pull a thin chain from my jewelry box. I slide the ring onto it with a soft metallic whisper. When it settles against my sternum, warm from my fingers, it feels… inevitable.
My reflection in the dark window looks like someone balancing on the edge of two lives.
I turn away from the window before the ache in my chest can sharpen again.
The house feels too quiet, too soft, and too safe.
Like I don’t quite belong in it anymore.
My footsteps sound too loud on the hardwood as I move down the short hallway, fingers trailing the wall like I need the anchor.
Isaiah’s flannel hangs heavy on my shoulders, brushing my thighs when I walk, too big, too warm, too him.
The kitchen light flicks on with a soft hum. I don’t remember reaching for the switch. I’m moving on autopilot, pulled by routine because everything else feels like quicksand.
I set my bag on the counter. Fill the kettle. The simple motions settle my breathing. Barely.
Steam curls into the air as the water heats, fogging the edge of the stovetop, too much like the way my breath fogged against his throat hours ago.
I blink hard, swallow, and steady my hands. I’m pouring tea when my phone buzzes.
Unknown number. My fingers freeze, and my heart leaps in my throat.
I swipe the notification open.
Steel: You home safe?
For a heartbeat, everything in me goes soft. Dangerous. True.
I type two words.
Aria: Miss you.
My thumb hovers over the send button. My chest pulls tight. My breath catches. Then I delete them and answer with the safer lie.
Aria: Yeah. I’m okay.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Steel: Good.
Just one word, but the silence around it is loud enough to break me open. I know what he isn’t saying. I know why he isn’t saying it. He’s avoiding me because he thinks distance will save us. Because I left him when he needed me. Because wanting me hurts him as much as it hurts me.
I set my phone down, pressing my palm to the ring resting warm against my sternum. For one long, fragile breath, I let myself believe this feeling, this crack opening, this wanting, might be safe.
The kettle clicks off. The house settles. Snow drifts lazily past the window in soft spirals of white.
I turn toward the hallway. My phone buzzes again from the table.
Once. Twice. It’s sharp enough to snag the breath right out of my lungs.
I go back into the kitchen, expecting Steel.
It’s not him.
Unknown Number: A picture message.
My stomach drops before I even tap it open.
The screen fills with a grainy, dark image unmistakably real.
Me sleeping in the cot beside Isaiah. Taken from inside the garage.
Ice shoots through my veins so fast I sway on my feet.
A second later, text appears beneath the photo. Slow and deliberate, like someone savoring the words.
Unknown Number: We know where you belong. Storms don’t hide secrets forever.
The phone slips in my hand. The house seems to tilt around me. My pulse roars loud enough to drown out the world.
Someone wasn’t just watching the storm.
Someone was there.
Inside the garage. Close enough to touch us. Close enough to kill us.
And they’re not finished. Not even close.