Chapter 16
WYATT
The aftermath of the bridge settled like dust after an explosion—heavy, visible, impossible to ignore.
Sophie stood there trying to put on a brave face, but I could see straight through it.
The exhaustion carved into the lines around her eyes.
The tremor in her hands she thought she was hiding by clasping them together.
The way her shoulders curved inward like she was trying to make herself smaller, less visible, less of a problem for everyone around her.
The mayor—Natalie—was kind about it. Understanding in a way that felt genuine, not political.
"We can always do the interview later," she said gently, her voice carrying the kind of authority that didn't need volume. "Or not at all. Whatever you need, Sophie."
Sophie nodded, her voice small and tight. "Thank you. I'm sorry."
"Don't be," Natalie replied firmly, her hand briefly touching Sophie's arm in solidarity. "You have nothing to apologize for."
Beth and Natasha hovered nearby, concern written all over their faces—Beth's mouth pressed into a thin line, Natasha's eyes sharp with worry that came from real affection.
But neither of them asked why. Why Sophie had panicked.
Why heights triggered something so visceral she couldn't breathe, couldn't stand, couldn't exist in that space without breaking apart.
And for some reason, that pissed me off.
They were her friends. Good friends, from what I could tell. They should know. They should understand what she was carrying, what she'd been through, why a bridge could undo her so completely.
But maybe they didn't. Maybe Sophie had hidden it from them the same way she'd hidden it from me for years—tucked it away behind smiles and competence and the careful performance of being fine when nothing was fine at all.
"I'm taking her back to her hotel," I said, my voice coming out harder than I intended, edged with something protective and possessive I didn't bother softening. "Alone."
Everyone around me got the hint immediately. Must've been the look on my face—the one I'd learned in rooms where hesitation got people killed, the one that said don't argue, don't question, just step back and let me handle this.
I regretted it as soon as the words landed. The sharpness. The command. The way I'd shut everyone else out without asking Sophie what she wanted, without giving her agency in her own crisis.
But this was Sophie. My Sophie. My one and only best friend who'd just broken apart in my arms on a bridge two hundred feet above water.
And she needed me more than she needed an audience right now.
Beth and Natasha exchanged a look but didn't push. Smart. Natalie nodded once, already turning to dismiss her staff with quiet efficiency, creating space without making it obvious, protecting Sophie's dignity without drawing more attention.
As luck would have it, a cab pulled up just as we hit the curb, like the universe had decided to cooperate for once in its miserable existence. I opened the door, helped Sophie in with a hand at her elbow, and climbed in after her.
"The Palmetto Rose," I started to say to the driver.
Sophie's hand grabbed mine, fingers cold and trembling despite the Charleston heat. "Wait."
I looked at her, really looked, and saw the plea in her eyes—desperate and exhausted and needing something I couldn't quite name yet.
"Can we go to your place?" she asked quietly, voice barely above a whisper. "I just ... I need some time away. To get over my embarrassment."
My chest tightened painfully. "You have nothing to be embarrassed about."
"I know," she said, but the words sounded hollow, automatic, like something she'd been told but didn't believe. "But I still need ... space. From them. Just for a bit. Please."
I squeezed her hand, my thumb brushing across her knuckles in what I hoped was comfort. "Yeah. Of course."
"Text your friends," I added gently. "So they don't think you got kidnapped."
She pulled out her phone with shaky fingers and typed quickly, the light from the screen casting shadows across her pale face, before leaning back against the seat, eyes closed, like even that small task had drained what little energy she had left.
I gave the driver Mama P's address, and we drove in silence through Charleston—past historic homes and palm trees and tourists who had no idea what had just happened, who were still having normal days full of photos and seafood and happiness.
When we arrived, Mama P wasn't home. The house was quiet, warm, lived-in in a way that felt safe instead of empty. On the kitchen table sat a plate of muffins—banana nut, still faintly warm, the smell of cinnamon and sugar and melted butter filling the small space.
"You should eat something," I said, guiding her toward a chair with a hand at the small of her back.
Sophie shook her head. "I'm not hungry."
"Try, anyway," I pressed gently. "Your body needs fuel. Trust me on this."
She sat down slowly, like her body weighed more than it should, like gravity was working harder on her than everyone else. Picked up a muffin with both hands like it might escape. Took a small, hesitant bite.
Then another.
Then she was devouring it, like she hadn't eaten in days, like her body had suddenly remembered it needed sustenance and was making up for lost time with single-minded focus.
I grabbed her a glass of water from the tap and sat across from her, watching as she finished the first muffin in what felt like seconds and reached for a second before realizing what she'd done.
She looked up, bashful, a flush creeping into her cheeks. "I don't know why I'm so hungry."
"It's your body," I said. "The aftermath of the panic attack. Adrenaline dump. You burned through a lot of energy up there. More than you realize. Your body's just trying to recover."
I grabbed a muffin even though I wasn't hungry, just so she didn't feel like she was eating alone. Took a bite I didn't really taste, the texture wrong in my mouth.
And I watched her.
Really watched her.
Not just the way she ate or the way her hair fell across her face or the way her fingers picked at the muffin paper with nervous energy. But something deeper. Something I'd been blind to for years, maybe my whole life.
She wasn't just beautiful. That hadn’t always been obvious—especially when we were kids and beauty meant something different, there'd been something about Sophie that made people look twice, though she'd never seemed to notice or care.
But there was something else now. Something I couldn't quite name but felt in my chest like an ache.
It was like ... warmth made visible. Kindness given human form. Sunlight wrapped in skin and breath and laughter. The kind of soul that didn't just exist in the world but actively made it better by being there, by caring, by showing up even when it was hard, even when it cost her.
My mother had seen it. All those years ago when she'd smile at Sophie across our dinner table—before the disease took her memories, when she was still fully herself—and tell me later, quietly, that I was lucky to have a friend like her.
That girls like Sophie were rare. That I should hold onto her because people like that didn't come around often and when they did, you didn't let them go.
I hadn't understood then. I'd been twelve and stupid and convinced friendship was forever because nothing bad had happened yet to teach me otherwise, because loss was still theoretical instead of lived.
But I understood now.
Sophie was the kind of person who saved lives on dinner cruises without thinking about it, who acted while everyone else filmed.
Who carried guilt for things that weren't her fault and probably never would be.
Who faced her fears even when they literally knocked the breath out of her, even when her body shut down in protest.
Who trusted me enough to fall apart in front of me and let me carry her away from it.
I wasn't seeing her for the first time. But I kind of was. Like someone had adjusted the lens and suddenly everything was sharper, clearer, more real than it had ever been. Like I'd been looking at her my whole life but only just now actually seeing what was there.
"Remember that time you bet me you could eat a whole bag of Snickers in five minutes?" she asked suddenly, pulling me back to the present, to the kitchen, to the moment.
I laughed despite everything, the memory surfacing easily. "I remember. I won the bet."
"You threw up an hour later," she said, smiling faintly, some light returning to her eyes. "In Mrs. Peterson's rose bushes."
"Yeah," I admitted. "And she made me replant three of them as punishment. Didn't eat chocolate for a year after that. Couldn't even look at a Snickers without feeling nauseous."
"It was disgusting," she said, but she was grinning now, some of the color returning to her face, the normal Sophie emerging from underneath the trauma.
"You still gave me your water bottle," I pointed out. "And didn't tell anyone what happened. Could've held it over me forever, but you didn't."
"Because that's what friends do," she said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
The word settled between us—friends—and I didn't correct it. Didn't push for something more, didn't try to name what was shifting between us. Just let it be what it needed to be right now.
We finished eating in comfortable silence. I cleaned up, rinsing plates and putting them in the sink, the water running hot over my hands, buying myself time to think through what happened next, what she needed, what I could actually give.
"What do you want to do now?" I asked, turning back to her.
She shrugged, noncommittal, too tired to make decisions. But I could see the exhaustion all over her—in the slump of her shoulders, the heaviness of her eyelids, the way she moved like gravity had doubled and every motion cost more than it should.
"You should take a nap," I said gently.
She nodded, already yawning, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. "Yeah. Maybe that's a good idea."
I led her to my room, down the narrow hallway, past Mama P's closed door.
My room was small, simple—just a bed and a nightstand and a window that looked out onto the quiet street.
But Mama P had put flowers in a vase on the bedside table—fresh daisies, bright yellow against the white sheets, like she'd known someone would need them, like she always knew what people needed before they asked.
I pulled back the covers. Sophie slipped off her shoes slowly, one at a time, and climbed in with the careful movements of someone who'd used up all their energy and was running on fumes and willpower. Her eyes were already fluttering closed before her head hit the pillow.
As much as I wanted to lie there next to her, hold her, make sure she was okay, keep watch in case the panic came back in her dreams—I couldn't.
That wasn't what she needed right now. She needed space. Safety. Rest.
"I'll be in the living room," I said quietly, my voice barely above a whisper. "Take your time. Sleep as long as you need. I'm not going anywhere."
She nodded, but I wasn't sure she heard me. Her breathing was already evening out, her face smoothing into something peaceful, the tension finally draining from her body.
A few seconds later, she was asleep.
I tucked the blanket around her shoulders, careful not to wake her.
Moved a strand of copper hair from her face, my fingers barely brushing her skin, warm and soft and real.
And for a long moment, I just stood there watching her sleep—the rise and fall of her chest, the way her hands curled loosely against the pillow, the absolute trust it took to let yourself be this vulnerable in someone else's space.
She was beyond beautiful.
And in that moment, standing in the doorway of my temporary room in a bed and breakfast in Charleston, I wanted to wake her.
To tell her everything. About my father disappearing when we needed him most. My mother forgetting my name but remembering the names of flowers with perfect clarity.
The ranch I couldn't visit because failure lived in every acre.
The brothers I'd abandoned to carry burdens I should have helped shoulder.
The years I'd spent running from anything that required me to stay, to commit, to be known instead of just seen.
But I didn't.
Because I was a coward.
And today was about her. Her pain. Her healing. Her rest.
What kind of man burdens a soul like hers with the aftermath of a life lived poorly? What kind of man dumps his guilt and shame and fear onto someone who'd just been through hell and barely made it out?
Not a man. A boy.
And I was no longer a boy, even if I still made a boy's choices, sometimes.
So, the man turned away. Closed the door quietly behind him, the latch clicking soft. Went to the living room and sat on Mama P's worn sofa that smelled faintly of lavender and old books, and waited.
All the while thinking about the angel sleeping in his bed. The perfect person who deserved better than what I could give her.
And I made a promise to myself right there, sitting in the afternoon light filtering through lace curtains, dust motes floating in the air like evidence of time passing: I would not fuck this up with my fucked-up life.
Tonight. Or maybe tomorrow. I'd leave. Make some excuse. Work emergency. Dominion Hall needed an answer. Something believable that wouldn't hurt her more than necessary, that would let her keep the good memories without tainting them with my damage.
Because I couldn't live like this. Not now. Not ever.
Sophie deserved someone whole. Someone who could show up without all this broken weight dragging behind him like chains. Someone who wasn't still running from ghosts he'd never learned how to face, who didn't wake up some mornings forgetting where he was or who he'd become.
Best to go back to the only thing I was good at.
War. And killing.
At least there, I knew the rules. Knew what was expected. Knew how to be useful without dragging anyone else down into the dark with me. Knew how to exist without being a burden on people who deserved light instead of shadow.
I leaned my head back against the sofa and closed my eyes, listening to the silence of the house, the distant sounds of Charleston outside—traffic, voices, life continuing on like nothing had changed.
And tried not to think about what I was about to lose.
Again.