Annelly

We’ve been driving for hours.

The kind of hours that blur together—long, dark, oppressive. The kind that no amount of music or conversation could’ve cut through, even if any of us had tried.  

Zeb’s hands stay steady on the wheel. Dominick hasn’t said a word since we stopped in Roanoke. And James… James hasn’t spoken since we left Ruby Creek eight hours ago.

I glance over, watching how his body curls in on itself against the door. He’s not asleep. Hasn’t slept once. His eyes are open, unfocused, locked on the darkness outside like he’s trying to see through it. Or maybe disappear into it.

I tried reaching for him once. Back around midnight, when the silence in the car got too loud and the weight of everything caught up with me. I thought maybe if I just touched him, it would anchor us both. But the second my fingers brushed his hand, he flinched. Pulled away like I’d burned him. 

That was four hours ago.

The headlights bounce over a sign I can’t read. Gravel crunches under the tires, and as the car slows, I know we’re close. 

I sit up straighter as we round a bend, trees parting just enough to reveal a long, narrow drive and a dark cabin tucked deep into the woods.

It’s bigger than I expected. Still modest—more hunting cabin than luxury hideaway—but clean. Well-kept. The kind of place someone goes to unplug from the world. Not run from it.

Zeb kills the headlights but leaves the engine running. “We’re here.”

My hands drop to my lap, curling into fists I don’t realize I’ve made until my nails bite skin. I should feel safe. Relieved. But all I feel is cold.

James shifts beside me. A movement so small I might’ve missed it if I weren’t watching him so closely. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole ride.

And still… he says nothing. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t acknowledge any of us.

Out the window, I spot Owen stepping onto the porch. He moves like a shadow peeling from the wall. No wave. No smile. Just a nod before he pushes the front door open and disappears inside. 

He was clearly waiting for us.

“Stay in the car,” Dominick says, already opening his door. “We’ll be right back.”

Zeb throws the car into park and looks up at the rearview mirror. Not at me. At James.
“You got her, brother?”

James nods once. No words. Just a tight, robotic gesture so unlike him, it makes my chest ache.

Zeb lingers for a beat, frustration etched into the lines of his face. He looks like he wants to say something, but instead, he exhales hard through his nose and gets out of the car.

And just like that, for the first time in hours, we’re alone.

James fidgets beside me, his breathing unsteady. Without thinking, I reach for his hand again, half-expecting him to pull away. But this time, he doesn’t.

His fingers close around mine. Not tight. Not comforting. But it’s something.

And God, I want to cry at the contact. At the fact that this—this small, mindless gesture—is the closest I’ve felt to him since we left. But I don’t. Because if I cry, I might never stop.

So I hold his hand in the quiet, pretending it’s enough. 

Pretending it means he’s still there. 

Pretending I’m not sitting in the back seat of a car next to the man I love, feeling more alone than I ever have in my life. 

Pretending that everything’s going to be okay.

But the comfort is short-lived, because the voice in my head won’t stop screaming: This isn’t him.

The James I know doesn’t go quiet, not when safety’s on the line. He doesn’t retreat into silence in the middle of a threat. He takes charge. He plans. He protects. He controls.

But the further we got from home—from Tyler—the more he started to disappear.

From the corner of my eye, I study his profile in the dim glow of the dash. The way his jaw clenches, like every muscle is working to hold something in. Like if he lets go, even a little, he’ll come apart completely.

I want to say something. Want to tell him it’s okay if that happens, because I’d catch him if he did. But I don’t know if I have the right. Not after everything I’ve cost him.

Because that’s what this is.

This silence.

This unraveling.

It’s all because of me.

I’m the reason we’re here. The reason he had to say goodbye to his brother. To his home. And now he’s stuck in the middle of nowhere, clenching his jaw hard enough to crack bone just to keep it together.

And the worst part… there’s this awful, selfish part of me that still aches for more. Aches for him to turn to me. To lean in. To give me something. 

It’s inexcusable, considering everything I’ve already taken from him. But it’s like I can’t help myself. I need him… even more now that I can feel him slowly slipping away.

Suddenly, the cabin door opens, and Zeb steps outside. He climbs into the driver’s seat a few seconds later, his eyes catching mine in the rearview mirror for a fraction of a second, before shifting to James.

“Owen’s got the place wired to the teeth. Motion sensors, cameras—everything’s installed and operational. The property’s completely secured with our tech, including the woods. Every inch is covered. We’ll be safe here.”

He throws the car into gear without waiting for a reply. Not that James offers one.

Zeb nods toward the building he just came from. “That’s Cabin One, our control center. It’s where Dominick or I will be when not patrolling or checking sensors.” 

He starts slowly up the bumpy, unpaved road.  

“You two will be in the next cabin. I’ll get you settled inside and let you crash for the night. Dominick and I will run a perimeter sweep after. Should be quick since Owen’s still here and he’s got eyes everywhere.”

Another silent nod is all James gives him. Zeb notices, and the worry in his expression deepens. He watches him for another long second before muttering something under his breath and turning back to the road. 

“Okay. This is it.” Zeb parks the car and kills the engine. 

The second cabin is much bigger than the first. Two stories. Wide porch. Stone chimney. Dark wood siding, weathered just enough to blend seamlessly into the trees. It’s cozy. The kind of place someone might retreat to when the world gets too loud. A quiet escape. A place to breathe. 

But this isn’t an escape. Not in that sense.

And no one here is breathing easy.

“You’ll be in charge of her safety and the perimeter around the house,” Zeb says, his words directed squarely at James. “Dom and I will handle the rest of the property, with Owen on overwatch like always.” 

 James nods again. Silent. Empty.

Zeb’s grip tightens on the steering wheel. When his eyes flick to mine in the mirror, it’s not a casual glance. It’s deliberate. Heavy. Weighted.

Like, do you see this too?

Like, what the hell is going on with him?

Like, I don’t know how to fix this.

I nod, just barely, because I do see it. And I don’t know how to fix it either.

When we finally make it inside, the warmth hits me hard. It’s such a sharp contrast to the crisp, cold night air outside; it sinks into my skin so fast it makes me shiver. The scent of wood and faint smoke settles around me, loosening some of the tension in my shoulders. 

A fire—Owen must’ve lit for us—crackles at the far end of the living room, casting flickering shadows across the stone hearth and the exposed wood beams lining the walls and ceiling. Everything is soft. Earthy. Rustic in a way that speaks of comfort. 

It’s… beautiful.

The kind of place people come to find themselves. To recharge. To feel human again.

But it doesn’t feel like James.

There are no sharp lines. No polished steel or pristine white walls. None of the faint citrus-and-cedar colognes the brothers wear clinging to the air. No trace of the life we just tore ourselves out of.

No Tyler.

It smells like pine and smoke and someone else’s idea of peace.

Zeb leads us through the main room and into the open kitchen, pointing things out like this is just a tour and not the aftermath of our lives imploding.

“Kitchen’s stocked. This is the living room, obviously. Dining’s over there. Half bath off the hallway. Upstairs has three bedrooms—two full baths. Owen ran checks on the plumbing, power, and heat before we got here. Everything’s solid.”

He sets the bags he’s carrying—walkies and some other tech—on the kitchen counter. Supplies, I’m guessing, meant for James. 

Then he turns to me. “Annelly, we suggest you take the middle bedroom. James, the one at the back of the house, since the long drive out front gives us a clear line of sight and it’s pretty well covered by cameras and sensors.”

I nod like I’m following along, but the truth is I’m not. Because as I watch James, I realize… he isn’t listening, either.

He’s been trailing Zeb like a shadow, eyes distant and unfocused, like none of the words are registering at all. This time, there are no subtle nods. No clarifying questions like he usually asks. No assessing glances toward the windows or exits as he searches for vulnerabilities.

The only proof he’s here at all is the sound of his boots on the floor—blank, mechanical footsteps. His body might be in this room, but his mind is somewhere else entirely. Probably back in Ruby Creek, still clinging to his brother.

Zeb glances at him, then quickly looks away, like it physically pains him to see his friend like this.

I know the feeling.

Because this isn’t James in survival mode.
This is James… drowned. Underwater. Lost and unreachable. 

Then, out of nowhere, his eyes flick toward me, and something shifts. Awareness snaps into place, delayed but unmistakable. His gaze sharpens. His shoulders tense—stiff, rigid—like I’ve crossed some invisible line. Like I’ve seen something I wasn’t meant to. Something he’s fighting like hell to keep hidden.

His jaw locks. His eyes go cold.

And just like that, the silence between us detonates.

“What?” he snaps, voice sharper than I’ve ever heard him. “You staring at me like that for a reason? Trying to figure out how far gone I am? How broken?” His voice turns bitter. “Spare me the look, Annelly. I don’t need your pity or whatever the fuck it is you think you’re offering right now.”

I flinch. “No, I—”

“Go upstairs. Now.” The words hit hard—cold. Final. A command tossed like a grenade, the way you would at someone whose feelings don’t matter. “Go to bed so the rest of us can focus on what actually matters.”

I just stare at him, stunned. This isn’t him asking for space. This is a dismissal. Plain and brutal.

And it stings.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t soften. Doesn’t flinch or look away when he sees the tear sliding down my cheek. He just stands there, arms crossed, face carved into something hard and indifferent. Like the wall between us is now so high, I’ll never reach him again, and he wants me to know it.

My eyes burn. I swallow hard around the lump in my throat and nod. Just once. Then I turn and walk upstairs, humiliation and heartbreak churning in my belly. 

I don’t breathe. 

I can’t.

Because if I do, I’ll fall apart. 

Something I can’t afford, especially now that I know with crushing certainty, James won’t be there to catch me. 

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