Chapter Fourteen
SWEET DREAMS ARE MADE OF THESE
LOUISIANA
I’ve spent so damn much time within these walls, and honestly, they feel more like home than mine ever did. Every inch of this place holds something—a memory, a laugh, a fight that turned into forgiveness. All the love built into the bones of it makes even the bad times feel less sharp.
I pause outside what used to be Maddox and Mercy’s room, the door cracked just enough.
And there he is.
Clean, he almost looks like a different kid. That long, blonde hair has a golden sheen now, catching the soft light like it finally remembered how to shine. A tiny beauty mark rests beneath one pale blue eye—lashes so long they nearly brush his cheekbones when he blinks.
His green pajamas are buttoned up crooked, sleeves a little too short, like they belonged to someone else first. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, cross-legged, barefoot, clutching a photo in both hands like it might fall apart if he lets go.
“I know it’s been a while,” he says softly—to the picture, to a ghost, to the universe. His voice trembles, high and hoarse in that way only grief can make it. “I just wanted you to know I’m okay…”
My hand curls around the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. Because something in his voice—small and raw and older than any child should sound—has lodged itself beneath my ribs.
“Tonight I had real food,” he whispers. “And even a bath.”
There’s a long pause. A little shrug of his shoulders—like he’s trying to make himself smaller.
“I promise not to get too comfortable,” he adds after a while. His fingers tighten around the photograph. “They’ll get rid of me. They always do.”
Fuck.
That shatters something inside me—because I know exactly how that feels. How it is to carry a quiet emptiness, to believe you’re less than enough, broken in a way no one wants to fix. To be afraid you’re not the kind of home someone can stay in.
I push the door open, trying not to show how hard it is to do something as simple as walk into a room like this. The air’s still warm from the shower, thick with soap and something else I can’t name. Not comfort exactly. Not yet. But close enough to pretend.
He moves fast, shoving the photo under his thigh like I’ve caught him sneaking cookies instead of just…missing someone. His eyes lock on mine, hard and daring.
“Is this the part where you tuck me in so I can go nite-nite?” he mutters, chin jutting out, all teeth and pride.
“Pretty much,” I say, not rising to the bait.
He stares at me for a beat, like he’s trying to figure out what my angle is, then lets out a dramatic sigh and rolls his eyes.
With a sharp tug, he jerks the covers back and slides under them.
I catch the flicker of movement as he slips the photo beneath his pillow, like a secret he’s not ready to let go of.
I don’t ask. Don’t press.
I sit on the edge of the bed and smooth the blanket out over his legs, careful not to make it a moment. Just something quiet and steady. Something he can expect.
“Tomorrow we’ll get you a haircut,” I say softly.
Henry’s voice comes from the doorway, low and even. “And some clothes that don’t make you look like you stole ‘em off a scarecrow.”
Dallas’s eyes flick between us, sharp and suspicious, like he’s seeing right through the quiet choreography we’re trying to pull off. Like he knows exactly what kind of script this is supposed to be—and he’s not buying it.
“Haircuts are stupid,” he grumbles.
I grin, just a little. “So is walking around like a little Yeti. People might start asking if we dragged you out of a cave.”
He narrows his eyes. “Says Farmer Fred.”
Henry steps in slow, chuckling under his breath as he ruffles Dallas’s hair—a quick, easy pass of his hand, like he’s done it a thousand times before. Not heavy. Not careful in the pitying way people usually are with kids like him. Just…gentle. Familiar. Like instinct.
Dallas doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t lean in, either. But he lets it happen.
Something in my chest pulls tight. That soft, hollow ache that creeps in before you realize it’s grief again, wearing a different face. I feel it settle beneath my sternum, low and mean, and I don’t need a mirror to know I’m looking at them like they’re something I’ll never touch.
All the what ifs rise like smoke in my chest—thick and bitter. What if things had been different. What if I could’ve given him this. What if I was whole enough to be more than just a stand-in.
Because biology doesn’t care how much you ache for something, and love—no matter how fierce, no matter how full—isn’t enough to make a body do what it can’t.
So I swallow the lump in my throat and breathe through the burn. I will not drown in this.
Not tonight.
“Oh, kid,” he says with a half-smile. “You’ll figure it out soon enough—Lou doesn’t give a single damn what anybody thinks.”
Dallas doesn’t answer. Just tugs the blanket up a little higher and sinks down an inch, like maybe this bed is warmer than he expected. Like maybe, for once, he doesn’t have to sleep with one foot ready to run.
It’s not surrender, but it’s a start.
Henry lowers his voice, gentler now. “We’re just down the hall if you need anything, alright?”
Dallas gives a tiny nod. Barely a breath.
But we’ll take it.
We leave the door cracked, just wide enough for a thin blade of light to spill into the hallway—just wide enough to pretend we’re not keeping watch.
Henry’s bedroom is all hard edges and muted colors—dark wood furniture, a heavy leather chair pulled up near the window, and the bed itself is rugged, covered in a thick, worn quilt that smells faintly of cedar and tobacco. It’s a room built for a man who’s used to carrying weight, not sharing it.
But for me, it’s more than that. It’s a shrine to a past when we were younger versions of ourselves—less guarded, less broken. But I can’t afford to live in the past when the present me has nothing to offer.
I stand by the window, arms crossed, jaw tight. I’m trying not to let the memories pull me under.
Behind me, Henry leans in the doorway, arms folded like he's trying to look casual. But I can feel his eyes dragging over me—reading every bit of tension I’m trying to pretend isn’t there.
“So…where the fuck are you sleeping tonight?” I force the words out, low and rough.
Henry cocks that damn eyebrow, slow smile creeping across his face. “Right here, little viper. With my fiancée.”
I whirl on him so fast my heel skids on the floor.
“The hell you are.” My finger jabs hard into his chest, all heat and fury and panic I can't name. This is all pretend so he can manage a few months on the damned couch.
He doesn’t even blink. Just looks at me with that infuriating calm like I’m the one being ridiculous.
“Where’d you expect me to sleep, Lou?”
I point toward the living room like it’s obvious. “The damned couch.”
He sighs, frustrated. “Tell me how the hell would that look? We’re supposed to be a couple. Dallas finding me crashed out on the couch like a one night stand says differently.”
“That’s your God damn problem.”
He doesn’t answer. Just steps in and shuts the door behind him—quietly, deliberately. Then he reaches for the hem of his shirt, starts peeling it off like we’re not in the middle of a God damn emotional hurricane.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I reach out, trying to stop him.
He towers over me, catching both my hands in one of his, invading my space. “Lou, I’m fucking exhausted, and so are you. Now, you can either get in that shower and crawl into bed with me…or I’ll make you.”
“You can’t make me do shit,” I spit, even though every inch of me is burning, raw and aching like I’m on fire.
Henry leans in, eyes sharp as knives, cutting through every lie I tell myself.
His thumb catches my bottom lip, pulling it down slow, like he’s daring me to break.
“Wildflower,” he breathes, voice low and brutal, “you can run this place like a fortress—but don’t fool yourself.
You’re desperate to let go. To stop fighting. To finally feel something real.”
Fuck him. Fuck that truth pounding between us like a hammer. It’s a trap, and I’m caught in the center, suffocating.
I wrench my hands free, my body trembling with the fight I can’t win, and storm toward the bathroom, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the walls.
“Put a fucking line of pillows between us.” My voice cracks, but I don’t care. I need the distance. I need the space. I need to breathe.
I barely close the shower curtain when the door creaks open. “Jesus Christ,” I snap, voice rough and tight.
Henry clears his throat, stepping inside with that easy confidence that makes my skin itch. “Figured it’d be better to talk with the water running—so Dallas doesn’t catch anything.”
I squeeze a dollop of shampoo into my palm, trying to steady my shaking hands. “Talk? About what?”
The silence stretches, thick and heavy. Then he says, low and steady, “About his file.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut.
I yank the curtain back, meeting his gaze.
He’s leaning against the sink, all inked muscle and sharp angles, dressed in nothing but black boxer briefs.
The sight roars through me like a warning—wanting, aching, but also the reminder of everything I’m not allowed to want.
“No,” I cut in, voice sharper than I intend. “I don’t want to hear about his fucking file. You didn’t see what she did—the way she pulled that brick and slammed it on the damn coffee table.”
Henry’s mouth quirks in that infuriating way. “She didn’t slam it.”
I glare, voice hard and fierce. “I said no, Henry. He’ll tell me in his own time, his own way. Not like this.”
His eyes narrow, a dangerous gleam in them—the same one I saw at Evie’s baby shower. “Careful, Lou. Talking like that, someone might start to think you plan on sticking around.”
I swallow hard, forcing the words out like splinters. “You think I’d dedicate all this time to being around him and then just dip? I’ll still be in his life…but from a distance. Like the fun aunt. Same way I am with Charlie and Bash.”
Henry doesn’t move. Just stands there, arms crossed over that ridiculous chest, eyes calm but cutting. “Sure,” he says softly, almost like he’s agreeing with me, but there’s a bitter edge to his words. “Just the fun aunt.”
A beat of silence.
“But you should’ve seen your face, Lou. When he said they always get rid of him.”
He doesn’t push, just lets the quiet do the work before turning and leaving me alone in the bathroom where the silence suddenly feels deafening.
Steam curls off my skin as I step out of the shower, and I almost blink at the sight—a neat line of pillows stretched across the middle of the bed, our silent truce waiting.
There he is: Henry. Every inch of that golden, solid body laid out like a God damn trap, glasses perched low, a book resting casually in one hand like he actually plans to read it.
His eyes catch mine over the rim, those wild hazel storms flashing, raking down my body like heat I can feel in my bones. He tries to look casual, but that kind of fire never hides—not from me.
Usually, I sleep naked. Hell, he knows it, but tonight, I wear a loose tank and shorts—tiny rattlesnakes coiled all over them. Cute. Venomous. Just like me.
He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to. That smirk hiding behind the book says it all, and I’m not about to let him win.
Before he can open that smart mouth, I strike first.
“Attraction’s never been the problem,” I say cool, grabbing my hairbrush like a weapon. He doesn’t look away, but I catch the twitch in his jaw, the flare of his nostrils. Holding onto that page like it’s his last lifeline.
“But we’re going to do the same thing we always pretend to do,” I say, brushing damp hair like I have all the time in the world.
He doesn’t flinch. “Yeah? What’s that, little viper?” His voice is low, slow, but I know it’s coiled tight—waiting.
I take a step toward his side of the bed, deliberate, slow. His throat moves—just a flicker, but I see it.
“Pretend the sight of you doesn’t drown the little panties I wear,” I murmur, closer now, “while you pretend the taste of me doesn’t haunt your tongue every time you see me.”
Flashes of us in what feels a lifetime ago slam through me, filthy and sharp.
Him pinning me against the porch railing, just outside the weak flicker of the porch light—like even God wasn’t meant to see this.
One hand crushed over my mouth to keep me quiet while the other forced my legs apart.
His tongue tore into me like a threat, like a promise, like he meant to ruin every part of me that wasn’t already his.
The way he’d watch me the whole fucking time. Eyes locked. Daring me to look away.
His fingers curl around the book. His jaw clenches so tight I almost hear his teeth grinding. But those wild hazel eyes—burning behind the lenses—don’t leave the page.
I lean in, my finger dragging teasingly along the edge of the book.
“Are you going to turn that page anytime today, Sheriff?” I whisper.
The book snaps shut like a gunshot.
His eyes slam into mine, breath gone for a second.
“The only thing I want to turn,” he growls, voice like smoke and steel, “is you—inside motherfucking out. I want you face-down, breathless, clawing at the sheets while I bury myself so deep you feel me in your God damn throat. Press my palm right here”—his hand ghosts over my lower belly, slow, deliberate—“and watch you fall the fuck apart.”
Then he catches my wrist—rough, reverent—and kisses my pulse point slow and hot. My knees nearly give out. His lips burn, but his eyes? They’re wildfire.
“Make no mistake, Lou,” he rasps against my skin, “this will happen again. And you better be ready…because it’s going to be a fucking reckoning. A violent reckoning.”
I jerk my arm free, pretending the fire in my chest isn’t from his touch. I march to my side of the bed, yanking the covers back harder than I need.
His laugh rumbles from the mattress—dark, indulgent.
“Come on! I thought we were having fun?”
I slide under the covers without looking, turning my back to the heat on the other side.
“Fuck you, Sheriff,” I mutter low, the ache hidden in the edge of my voice.
“Sweet dreams, wildflower,” he whispers after me.