Chapter 42
forty-two
Elijah
The apartment is quiet in a way that shouldn’t feel as loud as it does.
The game has already ended, the final whistle cutting clean through the space before fading just as quickly, leaving behind the low hum of post-match commentary that I haven’t bothered to turn off.
It fills the room without really touching it, voices blending into one another, numbers and statistics and replays rolling over each other without ever landing anywhere solid.
It’s just noise.
Something to stop the silence from becoming unbearable.
But it doesn’t help.
Nothing about this helps.
She hasn’t looked up.
Not once.
She’s still sitting exactly where I left her on the couch, the laptop balanced carefully on her legs, her fingers moving across the keys in a steady rhythm that hasn’t faltered since she started.
There’s a kind of quiet focus in her that pulls at something in my chest every time I let myself look for too long, something soft and familiar and achingly out of reach all at once.
Focused.
Lost in it.
Alive in a way she hasn’t been since we brought her home. And I can’t stop watching her.
It’s not deliberate anymore. It doesn’t feel like a choice. My attention just keeps dragging back, over and over again, like something in me is anchored to her whether I want it to be or not.
It should settle something.
Seeing that spark.
Seeing her come back to herself, even in something as simple as this, something as small as sitting there and writing like she used to, like nothing has been taken from her, like she hasn’t been broken open and stitched back together in ways that will never fully disappear.
It should ease something. It should give me something to hold onto. But it doesn’t. If anything, it makes everything worse. Because now I can see it clearly.
The difference. The gap. What she needs. And what I’m not giving her.
My hand flexes slightly at my side before I force it still, the movement small but deliberate as I shift my weight and lean back against the wall instead of pacing again.
It takes more effort than it should to stay there, to keep myself in one place when everything in me is still wired to move, to check, to watch, to stay ahead of something I can’t see but know is still out there.
My phone is still in my hand.
It hasn’t left it for more than a few seconds at a time since we got her home.
Security feeds.
Messages.
Updates.
Anything that lets me feel like I’m not standing still while something else moves.
But even with all of that, even with everything in place, my focus keeps dragging back to her.
The way her brows pull together slightly when she’s concentrating. The way her lips part just a fraction without her noticing. The way her body has softened into the couch, no longer held tight with that constant, underlying tension she carried when we first brought her back.
She looks like herself. And the realization hits harder than anything else has today.
Because I haven’t been treating her like herself.
I’ve been treating her like something that survived. Like something fragile. Like something I have to handle carefully or risk losing all over again.
And I know why. I know exactly why. I saw what he did to her. I saw her on that floor. I felt her stop breathing in my arms. I felt what it was like to lose her.
So now, everything in me is wired to make sure that never happens again.
But watching her like this, seeing that spark come back, I can see the cost of that.
I can see the distance it’s creating. I can see it in the way she asked me to sit with her.
In the way she had to ask me to hold her.
In the hesitation before she touched me.
In the way she leaned into me like she’d been missing something.
And I fucking hate that I’m the one who put that there.
My jaw tightens as I drag my gaze away from her for a second, letting it land on the television instead, where the post-game interviews have already started to roll.
Jackson is on the screen.
They’ve pulled him straight into it. Of course they have. Rookie. Face of the team.
The one they push forward when they need something polished, something easy, something people can consume without thinking too hard about it.
He’s standing there in front of the cameras, helmet off, hair damp with sweat, chest rising and falling just a fraction too fast for someone who’s supposed to look composed.
I can see it immediately.
The tension.
The strain.
It’s subtle, buried under everything he’s learned about how to present himself, how to play this part, but it’s there in the way his shoulders sit just slightly too tight, in the way his smile doesn’t fully land.
He doesn’t want to be there.
Not right now.
“So, Jackson,” one of the reporters says, leaning in just enough to push, “you’ve been absent for the past couple of weeks. Can you tell us what’s been going on?”
There’s a pause. Small. Controlled. Then he smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Family stuff,” he says easily. “Had to take some time to deal with it. Everything’s sorted now.”
Another question follows before the moment can settle.
“You’ve also been pretty quiet on social media lately. That’s not something we’re used to seeing from you. Should we expect you to be more active again?”
There it is. The shift. Barely there. But I see it.
The way his jaw tightens. The way his shoulders lock for half a second. The way his eyes flick, like he’s looking for something else entirely.
“Yeah,” he says, still smiling. “I’ll be back on there soon.”
It’s exactly what they want. And I can see how much he fucking hates it. My attention drags back to her. She hasn’t noticed. Or maybe she has and she’s choosing not to look.
She’s still writing. Still lost in it. Still chasing something that looks a hell of a lot like herself.
And the thought hits, sharp and unavoidable.
He’s out there being pulled in a direction he doesn’t want. She’s in here trying to find her way back to herself. And I’m standing in the middle of it, holding everything too tight.
My phone vibrates in my hand. The sound cuts clean through everything.
I don’t hesitate.
I answer.
“Yeah.”
“There’s movement,” Christian says.
Everything in me sharpens instantly.
“What kind of movement?”
“The head of the Vargas family just landed in Houston.”
The words settle in.
Heavy.
“Mateo Vargas.”
Of course.
“He doesn’t move unless something’s about to happen,” Christian continues. “Word is he’s already had a few quiet meetings. Bars. Backrooms. Nothing public, but enough to stir things.”
My grip tightens around the phone.
“They’re planning something.”
“They’re always planning something,” he says. “But this feels like escalation.”
Of course it does. We made the first move. Now they respond.
“We’ve got a location,” he adds. “One of their warehouses. He’s supposed to be there tonight.”
My body shifts without thought, already aligning with it, already stepping into something that feels clear in a way nothing else has.
“I’m coming.”
A beat.
“Yeah,” he says. “I figured.”
“I’ll be there once Jackson and Zach are back.”
“Don’t be late.”
“I won’t.”
The call ends.
And for a moment, everything settles.
Direction.
Purpose.
Something I can do. Something I can control. I turn back to her. She’s still writing. Still lost. Still chasing something I can see just out of reach.
And the pull hits again. Stronger. I know exactly what she needs. I can feel it before I even let myself think it.
The instinct to go to her, to take her face in my hand, to drag her attention to me, to anchor her there in something real and consuming.
I want to touch her the way I used to.
Without thinking.
Without holding back.
I want to wrap my hand around her throat, not to hurt her, never to hurt her, but to hold her there, to feel her pulse under my palm, to feel her alive.
To kiss her until she forgets everything else.
Until she remembers.
The image hits hard.
Immediate. And just as fast, something else follows. Her on that floor. Her blood. Her body going still. My jaw tightens. My hands curl into fists before I force them open again.
No.
I won’t risk it. Not when she’s just come back to me. Not when she’s still healing. Not when I can’t guarantee...My gaze drags back to her.
She shifts slightly, her expression tightening for a second before smoothing out again, her fingers never stopping.
And I can see it.
The gap.
The space she’s trying to fill.
And I know, I fucking know, that I’m part of it. But every time I think about stepping into it, about letting myself be what she needs, all I see is the moment I lost her.
So I stay where I am.
I hold the line.
Because control is the only thing I trust right now.
I drag a hand through my hair, my gaze flicking briefly back to the television before settling on her again.
Everything is pulling in different directions.
Everything is starting to fracture.
And I lock onto the only thing that makes sense.
Finish this.
End Vargas.
Remove the threat.
Then...then I can breathe.
Then I can give her everything again. Then I can touch her the way I want to. Then I can be what she needs.
This, this is temporary.
It has to be.
I look at her again. Really look at her. The woman I love. The woman I almost lost. The woman still trying to find her way back to herself.
And I tell myself, once this is done, I’ll fix this.
I’ll give her everything again.
Everything I’ve been holding back. Everything she deserves. Everything she needs.
I just have to finish this first.
And this time, I won’t fail.