James

I lead her up the stairs, her hand in mine—not because I’m steady enough to guide her, but because letting go feels impossible right now. Every step feels heavier than the last, the adrenaline that kept me upright downstairs bleeding away, leaving only fear and a bone-deep exhaustion that makes my legs shake.

When we reach the bedroom, I close the door behind us. The soft click of the lock is too loud for my frayed nerves, and despite myself, I flinch.

And then… silence.

Not the kind that soothes.

The kind that exposes every single crack I’ve been trying so desperately to hide.

Annelly stands beside me, close enough that the warmth of her body presses into my arm, her hand still tucked in mine. She looks so small. So fragile. And I hate it. Worse, I hate knowing that part of what she’s feeling is because of me—because of the way I reacted earlier, because of how I treated her when she least deserved it.

I pull in a slow, shaky breath, but it doesn’t help.

Because now that there’s no fight demanding my attention—no strategy to discuss, no confrontation waiting to erupt—everything I’ve been holding back crashes in at once.

Not just the sickening truth that my brother is missing.

But Ben’s voice siding with me.

The way Lucas stepped up with solutions, supporting me without hesitation.

How Zeb shifted forward, ready to put himself between Dominick and me if things got worse.

Even Owen, speaking up in quiet solidarity.

They all stood with me.

For me.

Not because they had to, but because they chose to.

A hot sting gathers behind my eyes. I blink hard, hoping it’ll fade, but the burn only sharpens. I drag a hand over my face, trying—and failing—to steady the trembling in my chest, but it doesn’t work. The tremor moves through me anyway, faint at first… then harder, too visible to hide.

I try anyway.

I let go of her hand, tucking both of mine into my pockets as if keeping them out of sight might stop her from noticing.

“James?” she whispers, hesitant, like she’s afraid that even saying my name might crack what little is left of my composure.

I look at her for half a second—just long enough to see the worry in her eyes, the gentleness, the hurt she’s still carrying from everything that happened downstairs—and the floor shifts beneath me.

I sit on the edge of the bed before my knees give out. My elbows brace against them, hands clasped tight, as if holding them together will keep me from completely falling apart.

“I didn’t expect today to go like this,” I say quietly, doing everything I can to keep my voice steady. “It started off so good. So incredibly perfect…”

A tired, broken sigh slips out as I think of her smile, the peace we felt while planting her daffodils—those few precious minutes where we let ourselves forget the danger still looming over us. 

Another breath drags through me, just as unsteady, just as thick.

“I shouldn’t have reacted like that. With Dom and Zeb.” My voice roughens. “And I sure as hell shouldn’t have yelled at you.” The words scrape raw on the way out. 

My throat tightens. 

“I scared you, and I’ll never forgive myself for speaking to you like that.”

The truth lands somewhere deep, somewhere raw and swollen and punishing. My fingers curl, trying to stop the shaking, but she’s already seen it.

The mattress dips slightly as she moves to sit beside me.

I force myself to look at her, but the moment our eyes meet, something in my chest gives. The air leaves my lungs in a shaky rush, and the first word barely makes it out.

“Annelly…” Her name fractures in my throat.

I swallow hard and try again.

“I’m—” But the rest catches, scraping against every inch of shame lodged inside me.

“I’m sorry.” The words finally slip free—rough, broken, truer than anything I’ve said all day. “For earlier. For yelling. For scaring you. For… all of it.”

My gaze drops to the floor because I can’t bear to see whatever is in her eyes. My hands tremble despite how tightly I’m gripping them, knuckles white from the effort.

“I shouldn’t have walked away from you. I shouldn’t have—” My breath stutters. “I lost control, and that’s not an excuse. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

The admission burns on the way out.

Everything in me feels too tight, too exposed. My chest aches like someone’s got a fist wrapped around my beating heart and won’t let go.

“I hate that I put that look on your face,” I whisper. “I hate that I became someone you had to flinch from.”

I drag a shaking hand over my face, desperate to contain the unraveling, but it’s useless. My throat is thick with it, my breath uneven. I don’t know where to put any of it—the fear, the guilt, the disgust curling deep inside me.

“I should’ve stayed with you,” I breathe. “I should’ve—God, I should’ve done everything differently.”

I feel her move before I see her.

A soft inhale. 

A shift in the mattress.

And then a hand finds mine—steadier than I deserve—while her other hand lifts to touch my face, gentle, certain, guiding my eyes back to hers.

My eyes close instantly. A reflex I can’t fight. A habit built from years of refusing to look weak where anyone could see.

The dam I’ve held together all day buckles under the weight of her touch. 

A broken sound slips out of me before I can stop it.

Suddenly desperate—for comfort, for a lifeline, for anything that might keep me from drowning—I lean into her hand like it’s the only thing holding me here. Like it’s the anchor stopping me from slipping into the darkness clawing at me from every side.

A tear escapes before I can stop it. Then another. Then another. 

I reach around her hand to wipe them away as quickly as I can, shame burning so hot under my skin I’m convinced she can feel it.

But she doesn’t let me hide. Her fingers follow, brushing my cheek again—steady, patient. Choosing me. Waiting for me. Even after everything.

“I’m sorry,” I breathe, the words slipping out through cracks I suddenly can’t close. “I’m so damn sorry.”

Her thumb sweeps away a tear I missed, and when I finally lift my gaze, she’s already leaning in—close enough that her forehead rests gently against mine. The contact is soft, barely there, but it steals whatever air I had left in my lungs.

“James…” she whispers, her breath warm against my skin.

Her fingers slide into my hair, slow and tender, as if she’s trying to piece me back together by touch alone. Her other hand stays on my cheek, palm open and steady, grounding me in a way only she ever has.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs. “It’s going to be okay.”

The words shouldn’t undo me the way they do, but they slip into every raw, splintered place inside me and settle there like a balm.

She tilts her head just enough to meet my eyes—not to expose me, not to corner me, but to remind me I’m safe. That with her, there’s no judgment. No anger left between us.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she says softly. “But in case you need to hear it… I forgive you. For everything. For all of it.”

My throat tightens. I shake my head, unable to accept something so big. So merciful. A level of grace I’ve never earned—not even close.

But she doesn’t let me look away. She doesn’t give me the space to retreat. Her thumb strokes my cheek again—gentle, patient, unwavering.

“I know it wasn’t about me,” she exhales. “I know you weren’t trying to hurt me.”

A tremor runs through me.

Because she’s right. And hearing her say it—knowing she understands—hits deeper than I’m prepared for.

She inches closer, closing the last sliver of space between us, her forehead still pressed to mine like she knows I can’t breathe and is offering me her strength.

“Loving someone means loving every part of them,” she murmurs. “Even the parts that lash out when they’re scared. Even the parts still learning how to trust… how to accept they aren’t alone anymore. Even the parts that sometimes hurt.”

My chest caves at that. And suddenly I can’t fight it anymore.

The pain. 

The guilt. 

The fear. 

The relief.

It all surges up, breaking through the cracks I’ve held together for far too long, and the sob that tears out of me is so rough, so gutted, it knocks the breath from my lungs.

But I can’t stop.

I can’t bring myself to stop.

Not with her hands in my hair.

Not with her voice soft and certain in my ear.

Not when, for the first time in my life, falling apart feels… safe.

Safe because it’s her. 

Because she’s the calm at the center of my storm. 

Because somehow—by some impossible miracle—being in her arms doesn’t make me feel weak.

It makes me feel loved in a way I think I’ve spent my whole life craving.

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