22. Chapter 22
Chapter 22
J esse sat on the couch like a live wire—still, but thrumming underneath. He’d shot her a text, hours ago now. Let me know when you’re coming back. Just so he could be ready. Just so he didn’t miss the sound of her footsteps.
Now it was past midnight.
The lock clicked.
She was here.
His place. Her key. The one she hadn’t given back.
He didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.
Just stared at the door, every muscle pulled tight. He’d told himself he’d keep it cool. That he’d play it calm.
But when it swung open and Hayley stepped inside—
Christ.
The air changed.
She looked like sin and heartbreak. Stage makeup smudged. That glossy red lipstick, worn off. Auburn hair long and wild over her shoulders. Black tank top, black shorts. Her legs bare, platform Vans still laced. His flannel slipping off one shoulder like it didn’t know whether to stay or fall.
She stopped when she saw him—just standing there, frozen.
Eyes locked.
She didn’t say anything right away. And neither did he.
The silence was taut, stretched so thin it buzzed in his ears. His eyes dragged over her—face, throat, legs—searching. But she looked okay. Flushed from the stage. Still breathing.
Then finally—
“What happened?” Her voice was hoarse, tight. “Were you there?”
But even before he could answer, her eyes dropped.
To his hand.
The busted one.
His right fist sat on his thigh, knuckles scraped and red, one knuckle cracked deep and already bruising, the skin split and swelling. Dried blood still clinging to the nailbed. Not fresh. But not old.
His stomach coiled.
“Yeah,” Jesse said, quiet but steady. “I was there. I wanted to see you sing.”
He saw it click.
The recognition.
The stillness in her spine. The way her arms tensed, like her whole body suddenly didn’t know what to do with itself.
And Jesse just sat there.
Let her see all of it.
Didn’t hide the damage.
Didn’t cover it.
Didn’t lie.
Because if he was going to lose her tonight, he was gonna go down honest.
“After the show, it was chaotic backstage,” she said, slower now. “Zoe told me Caiden got punched in the alley.”
Jesse didn’t look away. “I did it.”
The words hung there. Heavy. No apology in them. No regret.
Just truth.
Hayley stared at him. Eyes wide. Lips parted. She hadn’t moved from the door.
He didn’t speak again. Didn’t explain it. Just… waited.
For her to yell.
For her to turn.
For her to walk out.
The fridge hummed behind him. A car passed outside. The second hand on the clock ticked loud enough to echo.
But she stayed frozen.
Staring at his hand.
Staring at him.
And he knew.
He knew exactly what she was thinking—because he’d thought it too.
This could fuck everything up.
This could be the thing that tipped it all over.
But he hadn’t planned it. Hadn’t hunted it. Hadn’t even said a word when Caiden lit his cigarette and called Jesse a fucking junkie, a burnout, a mistake Hayley would regret twice.
He’d stood there. Silent.
Until he couldn’t anymore.
Until the words got too sharp. Until Caiden laughed about her being easy.
And then Jesse’s fist had answered for him.
He swallowed, jaw tight.
His voice, when it finally came, sounded like it was being scraped raw from his chest.
“I wasn’t gonna let him talk about you like that.”
The silence broke under the weight of it.
No excuses.
No embellishments.
He just said it.
And looked her in the eye like she was the only thing that ever fucking mattered.
Because she was.
She didn’t say a word.
Just stood there with her jaw slack, eyes flicking between his face and his knuckles, trying to make sense of it.
And Jesse—
He didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t breathe.
She walked past him, like the floor under her feet didn’t exist. Into the bedroom. Into the bathroom. Not a glance back.
But before she disappeared, he saw it.
Her face twisted. Crying.
Like it cracked open under the weight of all the emotion she was trying to carry. And then she was gone—door half shut behind her, the sound of the shower turning on a second later, drowning everything else.
Jesse stayed where he was, hands clenched, breath shallow.
What the fuck did I just do?
She was crying.
Fuck.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. The dried blood on his knuckle flaked under his palm, stinging as he pressed it to his temple.
He could still feel it. The way Caiden’s cheek hit his fist. The jolt through his arm. The sick satisfaction that followed. Maybe he did want to kill him. Wouldn’t be the first or the last person Jesse killed.
But now? All he felt was the after.
The ache.
The regret.
The weight of it.
He stood, slow and quiet, and made his way toward the bedroom. The shower was still running. Water beating a steady rhythm on the tile. He stepped into the doorway, leaned against the frame.
The glass fogged, but he could see the outline of her—stunning, curved, soft.
His cock twitched.
But he didn’t call out. Didn’t push. She needed space. That much he could read, even through the water and steam.
So instead, he backed away.
He peeled off his hoodie. His shirt. Jeans. Socks. Everything but his boxers. The bed was still messy from the morning—sheets twisted, pillows kicked down.
He slid under the covers, lay flat on his back, one arm flung over his head, the other drumming slow, absent fingers against his chest.
Waiting.
Listening.
Hurting.
The bathroom light cut off.
The door opened.
And there she was.
Scrubbed pink, skin still damp and flushed from the heat. Hair tied up. No makeup. Raw.
She was wearing his Disturbed t-shirt again—claimed and oversized, sleeves hanging off her shoulder.
She stood in the doorway for a long second, staring at him.
His chest clenched. “Babe,” he said, soft. “Come here.”
She exhaled. Didn’t speak.
But she moved.
Turned off the light behind her and crossed the room, slow, like every step took effort.
She climbed into bed like she’d done it a thousand times, like it was the only place left to go. But her body was shaking.
Exhausted.
Frayed.
Done.
Jesse pulled her straight into his chest, wrapping her in both arms like he was trying to contain her. Her head fit under his chin. Her hands tucked between them. Her breath came in soft, hitched puffs. Then a sniff.
She was crying.
Maybe it was him. Maybe it was being eight weeks pregnant. Maybe it was pushing herself to the limit every goddamn day. Or maybe it was all three and more.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask her to talk.
He just held her.
One hand found the back of her neck, rubbing slow circles. The other curled around her waist, keeping her close. He pressed a kiss to her temple, let his breath fall in rhythm against her cheek.
In. Out.
Over and over.
He felt the exact second her body started to soften.
The moment her muscles, coiled so tight, began to melt into him.
Jesse closed his eyes.
There was so much he didn’t know how to say.
But this?
This he could do.
Hold her like she mattered more than anything.
Because she did.
Hayley was curled against him, her leg hooked over his hip, her face tucked under his chin. She was still warm from the shower, skin soft and clean beneath his touch. The air smelled like her conditioner and faint citrus soap. Something grounding.
She hadn’t said much. Just let herself be held.
And Jesse had held her like she was made of thread—like if he moved too fast, she might unravel.
Now she shifted slightly, her voice a low murmur against his chest. “Can you talk to me?”
His arms tightened a little.
She’d never asked that before. Not like this. Not when she needed soothing. Not when her body was fragile and her heart wide open.
Jesse hesitated. His jaw flexed. He wasn’t good at this—saying things. Feelings. Memories.
“What do you want me to talk about?” He asked.
“How you grew up. Tell me more.”
Jesse laughed, cold. “Fuck, no you don’t.”
“Jesse, please.”
So he exhaled, fingers brushing slow lines over her back, and he started.
“Well, you already know my dad was Navy,” he said quietly. “Like full lifer. Overseas half the time. And when he was home…” Jesse swallowed. “He wasn’t the kind of man you wanted around.”
Hayley didn’t say a word. Just listened. The kind of listening that made the air feel holy.
“He fucked around a lot. Got my mom pregnant after a party. She was nineteen. He was twenty-five. It wasn’t love. It was alcohol and mistakes. But she kept me. Married him. Thought maybe he’d change.”
He felt her inhale against him, slow and soft. Still listening.
“He didn’t.” Jesse’s voice dropped. “He was angry. Always. Like something inside him never shut off. I grew up watching him smash holes in walls, scream at my mom, drink until the bottle cracked in his hand. My mom tried to pretend it wasn’t that bad. Until it got… worse.”
Jesse blinked into the darkness, his chest tight.
“I was thirteen. It was late. Heard her scream from the kitchen. I got up, ran in. He had her by the throat against the cabinets.” His hand paused against Hayley’s spine. “I thought he was gonna kill her.”
She stiffened slightly, then curled tighter around him.
“I called 911. Didn’t think—just did it. Got between them. Tried to pull him off her.”
His knuckles itched like the memory still lived in the bone.
“He beat the shit out of me. Belt. Fists. Whatever he could reach. Busted my jaw. Split my head. Left a boot print on my ribs. He would have finished me if the sirens hadn’t of came close.”
Hayley’s hand found his, laced their fingers together. No words. Just her grip. Steady. Fierce.
“He left before the cops came. Disappeared. My mom wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t press charges. Said it was a ‘family matter.’” Jesse’s voice cracked for the first time. “And I just… couldn’t understand. I’d protected her. Protected my little brother. I thought it meant something.”
Hayley shifted, lifting her head just enough to look at him. Her eyes were already full of tears.
“I didn’t talk about it for years. Not even to my brother. I just—shut it all down. Told myself I’d never be like him. Never be a husband. Never be a father.” His throat bobbed. “Because what if that shit’s in me too?”
Silence.
And then—
“You’re not him,” Hayley whispered, her voice thick. “You’re nothing like him, Jesse.”
He looked at her, heart breaking open in slow motion.
“I’ve been so scared,” she confessed. “So scared that I’m going to do this wrong. That I’ll mess it all up. That I’ll be alone with this baby and I won’t be enough.”
She pressed her hand between them—over her belly.
“I don’t want to do this alone,” she whispered. “But I don’t want to be scared every day either.”
He reached down, covering her hand with his.
“Hayley,” he said, rough and real, “you are the last person who should be scared. Everything feels like a mess—but you’re not. Not really. You’re wildly successful. Talented. Gorgeous. Brilliant. You have life at your feet.”
Her breath caught, but she didn’t look away.
Jesse slid his hand down to her stomach, slow and reverent, like he was seeing it for the first time.
“That’s ours,” he whispered. “Our second chance. Our start-over.”
She nodded, curling into him again, her palm over his heart.
“You’re going to be a better dad than you think,” she whispered. “I just know it.”
Jesse kissed the top of her head, his voice low.
“And you’re gonna be the mommy they run to first.”
And for once—
they both believed it.