Chapter 6
SIX
brENDON
I don’t go back to my mom’s house after the fire station.
I drive until the town thins out, until the road narrows and the trees close in like they’re trying to keep secrets. Snow dusts the branches, catching the headlights in brief, blinding flashes. I roll the window down despite the cold, letting the air bite at my face like penance.
Anger hums under my skin.
Not the explosive kind. The quiet, corrosive kind that settles into your bones and waits.
I pull over near the overlook by the river—the same stretch of water where I used to park my truck when I was seventeen, when the future felt like something you could outrun if you drove fast enough.
The river is darker now, heavier with winter, moving slow and sure like it knows exactly where it’s going.
I lean against the hood and breathe.
She thought I cheated.
The words loop in my head, over and over, each time landing a little harder.
I picture her at eighteen—smart, stubborn Abby with her hands shoved into the sleeves of my jacket because she refused to admit she was cold. I picture her opening a message, her heart cracking open with no way to brace for it.
I should be furious at the lie. At the person who sent it. At the years stolen.
But mostly, I’m furious at myself.
Because even if I didn’t know why she pulled away, I accepted it too easily. I let my worst fear—that I wasn’t enough—become the truth I lived with.
I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out the folded piece of paper I’ve carried longer than some of my deployments.
Her letter.
The edges are soft from use. From being unfolded and refolded on nights when sleep wouldn’t come. From being held like proof that something good once existed.
I don’t open it. I don’t need to. I know every word.
Be safe. Come back to me.
I laugh quietly, the sound sharp in the cold.
“I tried,” I murmur to the river. “I just didn’t know how.”
My phone buzzes.
For a split second, my heart stutters like it’s learned a bad habit.
Abby.
Daisy’s asleep. If you’re still awake… do you want to come over?
No promises. No expectations. Just an opening.
I don’t hesitate this time.
Her house is quiet when I arrive, the porch light casting a soft halo over the snow. I knock once, then wait, suddenly aware of how hard my heart is pounding.
She opens the door wearing leggings and one of those oversized sweaters that looks impossibly soft. Her hair is down now, loose around her shoulders. She looks tired.
She looks real.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey.”
She steps aside to let me in. The warmth hits me first, then the smell—clean laundry, vanilla, something faintly familiar that I can’t place until I realize it’s her. Just her.
“Daisy?” I ask quietly.
“Asleep,” Abby replies. “Out cold.”
Relief loosens something in my chest. I toe off my boots and hang my jacket, the motion oddly domestic.
She watches me like she’s bracing for impact.
“Do you want tea?” she asks.
“Sure.”
She moves into the kitchen, filling the kettle, her movements slower than earlier, like she’s finally letting herself feel the weight of the day. I lean against the counter, the same spot as before, and the memory of her mouth on mine flashes hot and vivid.
We don’t talk while the water heats. The quiet isn’t awkward—it’s charged, like a held breath.
“I’m still mad,” she says suddenly, not looking at me.
I nod. “You’re allowed.”
She snorts softly. “I don’t know if I’m mad at you or at eighteen-year-old me.”
“Probably both,” I say. “That seems fair.”
She finally looks at me, eyes sharp. “You’re not off the hook.”
“I wouldn’t expect to be.”
The kettle whistles. She pours the water, hands steady, then turns and leans back against the counter across from me.
“I don’t want to pretend we’re okay,” she says. “But I don’t want to pretend I don’t want you either.”
The honesty hits me square in the chest.
“I don’t want to pretend,” I say quietly. “About any of it.”
She studies my face, like she’s searching for the cracks. “I can’t do this if you’re going to disappear again.”
I step closer, slow enough that she could stop me if she wanted to. “I’m not here to make promises I can’t keep,” I say. “But I am here. Tonight. Tomorrow. As long as you’ll let me be.”
Her breath hitches.
“This doesn’t fix everything,” she says.
“I know.”
She closes the distance.
This kiss is slower. Her hands slide up my chest, tentative at first, then firmer when I don’t pull away. I cup her face, my thumbs brushing her cheeks like I’m relearning her.
She tastes like tea and warmth and something that feels like home.
We break apart only long enough for her to whisper, “We should take this slow.”
I rest my forehead against hers. “We can.”
She swallows. “But I don’t want to stop.”
“Neither do I.”
When we move toward the bedroom, it’s unhurried. Deliberate. Every touch is a question answered with yes. I pay attention to the way she breathes, the way she presses into me like she’s trusting her body to remember what her heart hasn’t caught up to yet.
“This doesn’t mean everything’s solved,” she murmurs against my lips.
“I know,” I say.