Chapter Forty-One
Benji
When she rounds the corner, still in the crumpled remains of yesterday, makeup ghosting under her eyes, lips chapped, posture all stubborn and small, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from breaking into a full-on grin.
She’s a fucking mess. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Precious,” I say, stepping toward her.
She bolts into me, arms around my waist, face buried in my chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to see me like this…”
I shush her. “No. Fuck that.” I tip her chin up. “I see you. I love you. All of you. The you that gets dragged from therapy in cuffs. The you who leaves threatening little art projects on Margo’s porch.”
Her nose wrinkles. “What about the me that has to bolt because Jett’s waiting outside like a romance novel on parole?”
That’s hard to swallow. Because yeah, I get why Jett hates this. Hates me.
Because right now I want to lift her off her feet and carry her home like some lumbering fairytale ogre. I want to undress her, wash the jail off her skin, rub the tension out of her shoulders, and make her come so hard she forgets ever waking up alone in a cell.
But instead I nod. “I love that version too.”
I can feel her trying to figure out if I mean it.
“I love you,” I say, steady this time. “And yeah, Jett and Rhys and I, we’ll get where we need to. Might not be smooth. Might not always make sense. But I’m not letting go.”
She squints up at me. “Did you and Jett do some kind of male bonding blood ritual? Or take mushrooms from a guy behind a dumpster?”
I laugh. “No promises there wasn’t something weird on those burgers last night.”
Her arms tighten. There’s a tremble in her that hasn’t quite settled.
“He invited me out tonight. I’m going. After that I’ll message you. Check in. Make sure you’re okay,” I say.
“Oh.” She clutches me tighter. “Oh. Wow. That’s… I’m not sure what to do with this level of okayness.”
“You don’t have to hold it,” I say, wrapping my arms around her. “You can just lean on it. Just… don’t run from it, okay?”
She nods against my chest, and I press a kiss to the top of her head.
It’s not the part where she runs to someone else that hurts. It’s how fucking hard it is to let go when all I want to do is keep holding on.
But I do. I let her go. Because I’m trying to be the kind of man she doesn’t have to claw her way out from under. And maybe Jett can’t be as soft as I want for her right now, but maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s why she keeps chasing us all like her survival depends on it.
I watch her walk away, the hallway swallowing her in slow motion.
And it hits me.
She’s scared.
Not just of what happened. Not just of being seen smeared and shaken. But of this, us. Me and Jett not at each other’s throats. Rhys letting his guard drop. All of us orbiting her instead of pushing her out.
That’s not what she knows.
Instability is her safety blanket. And stability, hell, that’s the real threat. Because what if it lasts? What if we stay? What if the chaos quiets down enough for her to hear all the shit she’s spent her life running from?
What if we’re too steady and she panics and leaves anyway?
Shit.
I spin on my heel and beeline for Rhys’s office like he’s got a cheat code for loving someone who’s never been loved right.
The front desk lady gives me a sharp look, one brow cocked like she can see through me. “Can I help you?”
“Is Dr. Hartwell available?” I ask, trying to play it casual and failing spectacularly.
“He’s with a client. Can I take a message?”
“No thanks,” I say, backing up like I just asked to see a priest mid-exorcism.
Because what the hell was I thinking? Hi, I need to speak to the man whose patient we both love. I’m not on his roster, but could I borrow his trauma-informed wisdom for a sec?
I step back into the hall and pull out my phone.
Then open the group chat.
Me: Can you message me when you leave her?
It’s for Jett, but Rhys will see it too, and maybe that’s fine. Maybe they should both know I’m in this for real.
Me: Just saw her in the hall. She looks good. Just, you know… worried about her.
Then I switch to her contact.
Me: Miss you already.
I stare at the screen, wondering if I’m doing any of this right.
And if I’m not… if I’m just fumbling my way toward her with open arms and a bleeding heart, I hope that’s still enough.
A message arrives just as I’m about to tuck my phone away.
Jett: She’s with me. Don’t worry. I’m not gonna fuck it up.
Every muscle in me twitches. I stare at the words.
Not gonna fuck it up.
That’s not some casual reassurance. It’s a promise.
I see all the angles. He’s not trying to steal her from me. Maybe he wants to protect her too. This isn’t about possession, it’s about care in the messy middle.
Wasn’t expecting to feel this. Relie f?.?.? . and something weird like gratitude. Because admitting that I’m not her only anchor now, that she can be tethered to more than one man, and still not drift away is terrifying. And it’s also… hope.
I just need to keep showing up. Email her funny things. Drop off coffee. Wait when she disappears and breathe when she comes back.