47. Bindi
FORTY-SEVEN
BINDI
Three weeks.
That’s how long it’s been since we arrived at the cabin.
We spent the first week just fixing up the place—most of it needed to be dusted or aired out.
Cassidy rebuilt the back steps with some scrap wood he found in the shed.
He was very proud of himself and I didn’t have the heart to tell him it looked like a death trap.
Since then, the days have blurred.
We wake up.
Fuck.
Have coffee.
Fuck again—this time on the kitchen counter, or the couch, or bent over the bathroom sink while we wait for the shower to warm up so we can wash ourselves and inevitably fuck again.
Sometimes we walk through the woods. Sometimes I read something from the bookshelf. We eat dinner, and after that Cassidy makes some filthy joke, eats me out like it’s his goddamn religion, and then fucks me into a coma.
It should feel repetitive.
It doesn’t.
It feels . . . addictive.
It’s strange, having him so close all the time.
When we were kids, we were always together—but that was different. Back then, there were lines. Ones that we never wanted to cross.
Now there’s nothing between us. No walls. No consequences.
Now, he can kiss me without shame.
Now, I can love him out loud.
And I do.
For three whole weeks, I’ve been completely, terrifyingly in love with Cassidy Reyes.
We don’t talk about the past.
Not the foster system.
Not Miami.
Not Anthony.
Not the motel.
Not the gunshots still echoing in my ribs.
It’s like we made a silent pact: If we don’t speak it, it can’t find us.
And I realized something most important in these three weeks.
I missed him—the real, flawed, obsessive version. The way he breathes beside me like the air tastes better when I’m in the room.
I didn’t realize how much I still love him until the thought of being without him made a knot so large in my stomach I thought I’d be sick. How much better I sleep at night knowing he’s beside me. How much sense the world makes just because he’s beside me.
I’ve stopped looking for an escape route, an exit plan—I stopped wanting one. He’s endgame for me.
So this morning when I find blood on the toilet paper when I go to wipe . . . why am I . . . relieved?
For a second, I almost laugh, but it sticks in my throat. I’m not pregnant.
Despite his need to pump me full like it’s his duty.
Despite the way he insists, I keep him inside me long after we’ve finished, like it’s the only place in the world he belongs. If Cassidy had it his way, I don’t think we’d ever disconnect. Not for food, not for sleep. He’d live inside me if he could. His words, not mine.
Rain taps on the roof, muffling the quiet inside the hollow space between my ribs where relief curls around my heart. I should want a baby if I love him, right? That’s what people do. They fall in love. They make babies.
But I know us, and I know me. I could never make a child live its life in the shadows. In a world where we can’t even hold a plan in our hands for longer than a week without it burning through. We don’t have a future, just a fire we keep stoking, hoping it doesn’t snuff us out before morning.
I press a hand to the damp crease of my pajama pants, fingers trembling slightly.
A fresh cramp twists in my gut. It feels right.
Normal. This is how it should be. This is what’s right.
If I were pregnant? Cassidy would lose his mind.
In the good way first—baby names, nursery delusions, kisses to my stomach trying to bless the cells inside me.
But then there would be the spiral, the paranoia, the pressure.
He already feels too out of control having to keep me safe.
He wouldn’t survive the weight of both of us.
And I wouldn’t survive watching him try.
I rinse off quickly in the bathroom, avoiding the mirror. I don’t want to see the guilt in my eyes. Or worse, the relief .
I towel off and change into something that looks more composed than I feel—a long black tank dress that’s soft, and clings to my hips.
I throw on my old army green jacket over it, fingers brushing the fraying seams. I braid my hair quickly, tugging it over my shoulder, and glance in the mirror above the dresser.
I look fine, normal, maybe a little flushed. But nothing that screams just dodged a bullet. Nothing that says I’m lying to the man sleeping ten feet away . I swipe a little balm on my lips, shove the keys into my jacket pocket, and start looking for my boots.
Cassidy groans behind me. “What are you doing, Firefly?”
I freeze in the middle of the room.
Shit. I turn slowly, forcing a lazy smile. “Just going into town.”
He frowns and sits up, bare chest rising and falling. His hair is flattened on one side, curling around his ears. He rubs his hand over his face, the pads of his fingers pausing briefly over the scar near his jaw. He always touches it when he’s trying to read me.
“What for?”
I hesitate, then lean against the doorframe. “I started my period.”
His brows knit tighter, then he starts to get up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Let me take care of you.”
“No.” I cross the room quickly, pressing both palms to his shoulders before he can stand. “Cass, it’s okay. I’ll be super quick. Last thing you want is to stand in a tampon aisle with me while I overthink brands.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but his hands find my waist anyway, fingers curling just slightly. “Bindi . . .”
“I’m fine,” I whisper, cupping his cheek. “Really.”
His eyes search mine, and I can see the calculations ticking in his head.
“I figured maybe I’d pick up something for your birthday too.”
That makes him pause. “We’ve never celebrated our birthdays. You don’t even know mine.”
“Yes I do,” I say, grinning now. “It’s in two days. ”
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, more like the ghost of one. “You don’t need to get me anything.”
“I know,” I say simply. “I want to. We deserve to celebrate life finally.”
That does it. He softens. Just a fraction, but I see it.
Cassidy leans forward, digging through the pocket of his crumpled jeans on the floor. He pulls out a wad of bills and holds them out. “Take this.”
I pluck the cash from his hand and give him my sweetest smile. “Thank you,” I whisper.
He tugs me in before I can back away, mouth brushing against mine. His hand cups the back of my neck, trying to memorize the shape of my skull.
“Be quick,” he says when we break apart, lips still hovering against mine.
“I will,” I promise, already moving.
“Be careful.”
“I always am.”
The closest store is about twenty minutes out, a squat little building off the highway with flickering neon and a half-dead parking lot. Not exactly a bustling grocery store, but it keeps enough basics on the shelves to get Cass and me by.
The rusted automatic doors groan as they drag open, hitching once before clattering shut behind me.
I grab a wire basket from the stack, fingers curling tight around the handle, and keep my gaze locked down.
We haven’t exactly made friends here—haven’t even tried.
The locals keep their distance, and we keep ours, like we’ve all silently agreed to mind our own goddamn business.
Even still, my skin crawls the second I step inside, like I’m broadcasting my sins through a loudspeaker. Like there’s a big neon sign flashing above my head:
WANTED. FUGITIVE. BAD IDEA.
Paranoia? Yeah, probably. But it’s a second skin I’ve never quite been able to peel off.
I push down the aisle fast, eyes scanning the shelves like I’m on a mission.
First stop: tampons. They’re crammed on a sad little rack between the toilet paper and the cat litter.
I don’t bother checking, just grab the first box I see and toss it into the basket.
It’s not like it matters; I’ve never been picky. Never had the luxury to be.
Next stop: cupcakes.
The “bakery” is a rickety metal rack near the back with a few dusty plastic containers stacked like someone lost interest halfway through stocking it.
I zero in on a four-pack of vanilla cupcakes, squished up against the plastic, frosting bleeding out the sides. Rainbow sprinkles melted into the mess.
Pathetic.
But Cass’ll eat the fuck out of them, anyway.
I stare down at them for a beat, something heavy pressing in my chest. Growing up, birthdays were .
. . well, let’s just say they didn’t matter.
No parties. No cake. No candles. No singing.
Cass won’t talk about his childhood, and I’ve blurred out most of mine on purpose.
Foster care is my own real memory of growing up and even then, the only times we ever got anything close to a celebration was during those “Shop with a Cop” years.
Once a year, a Walmart gift card and a forced smile.
So yeah, cupcakes. Even if they look sad as hell, at least it’s something.
I drop them into the basket, turn on my heel, and head straight for the register, eyes pinned to the filthy linoleum.
But halfway there, the air shifts .
A prickle slides up my spine, setting every nerve on edge. My steps slow without thinking. It’s the feeling of being watched.
I lift my eyes, cautiously, heart banging against my ribs.
Leaning against the checkout counter is a man.
Big. Broad. Solid. He looks like a wall with arms. His dark brown hair is perfectly styled, not a strand out of place, and his beard is neatly trimmed.
His black polo clings to his chest, tucked tight into dark jeans, a brown belt cinched at his waist, and his boots are polished to a dull shine.
Definitely not from around here.
My stomach drops. Every instinct I have starts shrieking: RUN.
I freeze, feet locking down like they’re bolted to the floor, basket dangling from my hand.
He straightens and flashes me a polite little smile.
I force myself forward and set my basket down on the conveyor behind him. I set my items out. Maybe he’s nobody, I tell myself. Maybe he’s just some guy.
“Bindi Vega?”