Page 38 of Dagger

That’s a lie, and we both know it. My chest feels tight, my throat threatening to close up with the weight of the truth I’m choking down. Itwasa big deal. A hell of a big deal. It wasn’t just sex to me—it was the first time a man touched me in a way I wanted. It was the first time I felt like I mattered. That night waseverythingto me.

But I don’t say any of that. I can’t.

Instead, I take a deep breath, my voice colder now. “You need to think about whether you want to be in his life, Dagger. If you do, we’ll figure something out. I grew up without a dad, and I don’t want him to have to go through the same thing.”

I see the way his face shifts—his eyes widening slightly, his mouth opening like he wants to say something—but I don’t give him the chance.

I turn, heading toward the small shed in the backyard that I’ve turned into my refuge, my sanctuary. I don’t look back. I don’t care what he’s doing, whether he’s still standing there or walking away. I’m done. Done with the conversation, done with the regret that’s written all over his face. Done with pretending I’m not still reeling from the way that one night changed everything for me.

As I close the door behind me, the tears I’ve been holding back finally spill over, silent and hot against my cheeks. I press my back against the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the floor, my knees pulled to my chest. I want to scream, cry,something,but all I can do is sit there, staring at the floor, trying to convince myself that I don’t care if he stays or goes.

But deep down, I know I do.

FOURTEEN

DAGGER

Fuck.I slam my fist against the handlebars of my bike, the sting sharp and immediate. It doesn’t help. Nothing ever does. I tried to do the right thing, to make things right with Chloe, and she threw it all back in my face.

“Fuck her,” I mutter, but the words are empty. I don’t mean it. I could never mean it. She was angry, yeah, but she had every right to be. And me? I’m still stuck here, spinning in circles, trying to fix something I broke without even realizing it.

I twist the throttle hard, the engine roaring beneath me as I peel away. I don’t have a destination, just a need to ride, to lose myself in the road. For hours, I push the bike faster and harder, but it doesn’t stop the memories from creeping in. Chloe, standing there with that fire in her eyes, looking at me like I was the last person she wanted to see. And now, with my son—myson—growing inside her, I can’t get away from the guilt no matter how fast I ride.

Eventually, I find myself pulling up to a house I haven’t been to in years. My mom’s place. Only, it doesn’t look like the house I left behind. The yard is immaculate, the grass trimmed and lush. There’s a neat row of flowers blooming along the edge ofthe driveway, vibrant reds and yellows standing out against the fresh coat of white paint on the house. Someone’s put in a hell of a lot of work here.

Killing the engine, I swing my leg off the bike and take it all in. The new shutters, the clean windows, even the welcome mat by the front door—none of this is what I expected. My chest tightens as I make my way to the porch. I don’t know if it’s guilt or surprise, but it’s there, heavy and suffocating.

I knock, the sound of it loud in the quiet evening air. A few moments later, the door opens, and a man I don’t recognize stands there. He’s older, maybe in his late fifties, with a sturdy build and a calm but guarded expression. He looks like he belongs here. Like heshouldbe here.

“Who the fuck are you?” I growl, my instinct kicking in before I can stop it.

The guy doesn’t flinch. He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms, his eyebrow lifting slightly. “Who the fuck areyou?” he fires back, his tone just as sharp.

Before I can step closer or say something stupid, my mom’s voice cuts through the tension, warm but firm. “Will you two stop it already?”

I look past him, and there she is. Mom. She’s smaller than I remember, her hair streaked with gray, but there’s a light in her eyes I haven’t seen in years. She looks... happy.

“Frank, this is Jeremy. My son,” she says, motioning between us with the kind of no-nonsense tone that hasn’t changed since I was a kid. Then she turns to me, her expression softening. “Jeremy, this is Frank. We’re getting married.”

The words hit me like a gut punch. Married. My mom’s getting married. To this guy. I glance at him, taking in the way he stands beside her, solid and sure, and it clicks. He’s the reason the house looks this way. The reason she looks this way.

She doesn’t give me time to process it. “Now, get your ass in here and give your mama a hug.”

I hesitate for a second, pride warring with guilt, but one look at her face is enough to break down whatever walls I’m trying to hold up. With a heavy breath, I step inside, the smell of her cooking wrapping around me like a blanket. She pulls me into a hug, her arms tight and familiar, and for a moment, everything else—Chloe, my son, the mess I’ve made—fades into the background. But it’s still there, waiting.

I step inside and freeze, my eyes scanning the room. The place looks... different. It’s warm and inviting, the kind of home you see in movies or on holiday commercials. The walls are painted a soft, welcoming color, and there’s a quilt draped over the back of the couch. A couple of framed photos sit on the mantle, and the faint smell of something baking lingers in the air. There’s even a vase of fresh flowers on the coffee table. It’s cozy. Alive.

“Come here,” Mom says, pulling me into a tight hug before I can process it all. Her arms wrap around me like they used to when I was a kid, and all the tension I’ve been holding onto melts away.

Why the hell have I waited so long to come back? I know the answer—too many bad memories tied to this place. But looking at it now, it’s hard to reconcile the house I grew up in with the one I’m standing in.

Mom steps back and smiles up at me, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She looks good. Happier than I’ve seen her in years. I kiss the top of her head, my chest tight with emotions I can’t quite name. “Sorry, Mom,” I say, my voice low.

She pats my cheek, her touch gentle, and gives me a look that’s pure love and forgiveness. “Nothing to be sorry for, Jeremy,” she says softly. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

She motions toward the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea?”

“I’m okay,” I say, grinning. “Really.”

---