28. Wes
WES
The photographer's enthusiasm grates against my nerves like sandpaper.
He's showing the camera screen to anyone within arm's reach, practically vibrating with the satisfaction of capturing what he thinks is a perfect community moment.
The digital display catches the overhead lights, casting a blue glow across his eager face as he angles it toward a cluster of volunteers.
I don't mean to look. Hell, I'm actively trying not to look. But the screen tilts just enough as he passes behind me, and the image burns itself into my peripheral vision before I can turn away.
There's Brody, caught mid-laugh. Not the careful, controlled smile he usually offers strangers, but something unguarded and bright.
His head is thrown back, mouth open in pure delight, the kind of uninhibited joy that makes something twist in my chest. Tate stands beside him, steady and grounding, his hand resting on Brody's shoulder like it belongs there. Like it's always belonged there.
And then there's me. Leaning in toward the kid, my usual scowl replaced by something that looks dangerously close to contentment. The camera caught me in a moment I didn't know I was having, when my guard was down and the kid's laughter had pulled something genuine out of me.
But it's Jordyn that makes my stomach drop.
She's not hovering on the edges like she usually does, ready to swoop in and manage whatever crisis might emerge.
She's inside the frame, part of the composition, looking like she belongs exactly where she is.
Dean stands just behind her, solid and present, completing the picture in a way that makes the whole thing look. ..
Intentional. Real. Like a family.
The photographer moves on, chattering about community spirit and local heroes, but the image stays burned behind my eyelids. I drag a hand over my neck, trying to shake the feeling that's settled there like a weight I can't name.
This isn't what we signed up for. When Tate suggested inviting them to the station, it was supposed to be simple. Help a kid who reminded us of Eli. Be decent human beings. Nothing complicated about it.
Except somewhere along the way, it stopped being simple.
Stopped being charity or basic decency. The kid started looking for me specifically when they visited.
Started asking questions about the equipment in that precise, focused way that meant he actually cared about the answers.
And Jordyn... Jordyn stopped flinching when I got too close or spoke too bluntly.
I step away from the crowd, putting distance between myself and the photographer's enthusiastic display.
The concrete wall of the engine bay is cool against my back as I lean into it, crossing my arms over my chest. From here, I can just see the whole scene playing out—families milling around the trucks, kids sticky with cotton candy, the organized chaos of a successful community event.
But my eyes keep finding them. Tate crouched down, explaining something to Brody with the patience of someone who's done this before.
Jordyn nearby, her usual hypervigilance softened into something that looks like trust. Dean moving through the crowd with quiet efficiency, making adjustments that keep the space comfortable for everyone.
We look like a unit. That's what the camera captured—not just four separate people who happen to occupy the same space, but something cohesive. Something that works.
The realization sits heavy in my gut, sharp and immediate. This isn't casual anymore. Hasn't been for a while, if I'm being honest. But seeing it laid out like that, frozen in pixels and good intentions, makes it harder to pretend otherwise.
I've never been good at sharing. Never been the type to play nice with others when it comes to things that matter. But this... whatever this is... I want in on it. All the way in. Not just as Tate's backup or the guy who fixes things when they break, but as something more permanent.
The thought should scare me. Should send me running in the opposite direction like every other time someone tried to make me part of something bigger than myself.
Instead, it just makes me want to fight harder to keep it.
My gaze drifts from Tate and Brody back to the swirling organized chaos.
Kids run sugar-fueled sprints across the asphalt, their parents trailing behind with tired smiles.
It’s a picture of normal. A type of normal I’ve never fit into.
The feeling from before, that uncomfortable proprietary itch, claws at my throat.
This whole thing feels fragile, a snapshot that could shatter if you look at it too long.
Then I spot her.
Jordyn breaks from a conversation with a local teacher, her nod sharp and final.
She moves with a specific purpose, weaving through the thickest parts of the crowd like a current finding its way through rocks.
Fast. Controlled. She doesn't want anyone to see her go. Her hand pushes a metal bar, and a heavy side door swings open just enough for her to slip through. The door sighs shut behind her, cutting off the high-pitched laughter of a nearby child. I don’t think.
I just follow. The need to know she’s okay is a physical pull, an instinct that bypasses thought.
The air in the back lot is ten degrees cooler.
The noise of the fundraiser bleeds through the brick and steel, a dull, thumping heartbeat that’s a world away from the sensory assault inside.
She stands braced against the wall, one hand flat against the cool red brick as if to steady herself.
Her clipboard hangs forgotten from her other hand, angled toward the cracked pavement.
Her shoulders rise and fall, a ragged rhythm she’s fighting to even out.
Fighting and losing. Her head is down, the messy bun she always wears hiding her face.
I walk toward her, my boots scuffing on loose gravel.
The sound is loud in the relative quiet.
She doesn’t startle when I stop, just lifts her head slowly.
The usual guarded fire in her hazel eyes is banked, leaving behind a profound exhaustion that seems to settle deep in her bones.
There’s no surprise in her expression, no question.
Just a quiet, weary acceptance of my presence.
"This is too much."
The words are spoken to the cracked pavement between us.
The clipboard finally slips from her fingers, clattering onto the ground with a sharp smack that slices through the muted thrum of the party.
She doesn’t flinch. Her hand stays plastered to the brick, knuckles white, as if she’s the only thing holding the wall upright.
It isn’t a complaint. It’s a diagnosis. A final, unfiltered truth from a woman who filters everything.
I close the distance between us. My boots crunch on the gravel, a deliberate sound that claims the space.
I stop just short of her, close enough that she has to feel the heat coming off me, close enough that a breath would make our shoulders touch.
I crowd her world until there’s only me and the wall.
"Breathe."
My voice is a gravelly command. It’s not soft. Not patient. It’s a rock for her to either break against or stand on.
"You're good."
Her head snaps up. Her hazel eyes, wet and sharp, lock onto mine.
For a second, I see the fight coil in her muscles, the instinct to push me away, to tell me to go to hell.
I don't move. Don't soften my stance. I just hold her gaze, a solid, unyielding force. A choked sound escapes her, half-sob, half-laugh, and then her shoulders drop an inch. The ragged tempo of her breathing stutters. Once. Then twice. It begins to even out, each inhale a little deeper, each exhale a little less forced. She’s pushing against the solid reality of my presence, using it to find her own footing.
Her breathing stills. The jagged, panicked rhythm smooths into something slow and deliberate.
She doesn’t step away. Doesn't move at all.
Her eyes stay locked on mine, wide and bright with unshed tears, but the terror has receded.
I can smell ozone from the impending rain and the faint, clean scent of her shampoo.
The space between us shrinks, charged with an energy that has little to do with her panic and everything to do with the fact that I followed her out here.
The air thickens, heavy and close. The muted thump of music from the fundraiser fades into a low hum, irrelevant white noise.
All that exists is the rough brick wall at her back and the inches of charged air separating us.
Her lips part just enough for an exhale, a soft puff of breath that I feel against my chin.
For a split second, my entire body tenses with a single, primal thought: close the gap.
My focus drops to her mouth. It would be easy.
Lean in, cover her lips with mine, and take what the moment offers.
Erase the exhaustion from her face with something raw and immediate.
Claim it. Claim her. The impulse is a physical jolt, a current that travels from my gut straight to my muscles, urging me forward.
It’s a bad idea. A grenade tossed into the fragile thing we’re all building around her and the kid. I know this.
But I want to. God, I want to.
My jaw clenches so hard a muscle jumps along my cheek.
I force my gaze away from her mouth, back up to her eyes.
The raw vulnerability there is a punch to the gut.
It’s not an invitation. It’s a ceasefire.
And crossing that line now would be taking advantage of a truce she didn't even know she was offering.
She wants it too. I can see it. I can feel it.
I hold myself rigid, fighting a war in the two inches between us.
Then, I break the spell. My gaze drops to the clipboard lying on the asphalt.
I crouch, the movement stiff, and scoop it up, knocking a dusting of gravel from its plastic cover.
I stand and hold it out to her. My hand is steady.
No one would ever know I just thought about shoving it into the wall and taking what I wanted.
“Don’t drop your crap.” My voice is a rasp, rougher than I intend.
She takes it from my hand, her fingers brushing mine for a fraction of a second. The contact is a static shock that shoots up my arm. Her eyes are still on me, searching for something I’m not sure I have.
It kills me to watch her walk back inside.