Page 25 of Dagger

Maybe he thinks Hawk and I are a thing. We did just walk in together, laughing and talking. I glance down at my bump, my hands instinctively resting over it. Or maybe he saw that.

This tight shirt doesn’t hide much, and at this point, it’s impossible to miss. I’m definitely pregnant, and it wouldn’t take much for him to put the pieces together.

But the big question is why. Why does he even care?

He’s the one who left. He’s the one who walked out after that night, the one who hasn’t reached out in over four months. Four long months of silence while I’ve been trying to figure out my life, trying to prepare for something I didn’t see coming.

If he cared so much, why didn’t he call? Why didn’t he text, or check in, or even let me know he was okay?

The hurt I thought I’d buried comes rushing back, sharp and unforgiving. I’ve spent all this time wondering what I did wrong, why he left without a word. And now he’s here, looking at me like I’m the one who oweshiman explanation.

My chest tightens, and I try to shove the emotions back down where they belong. Dagger might be back, but that doesn’t mean anything. Not yet.

I press my lips together, stealing a glance at Hawk. He’s standing tall, his jaw set like he’s ready to take on whateverDagger throws his way. He doesn’t deserve Dagger’s anger, not after everything he’s done to help me.

And me? I don’t deserve to feel like this—like I’m still waiting for a man who left me behind.

I cross my arms over my bump, my mind racing. If Dagger has something to say, he better be ready to explain himself first.

I tie the apron around my belly, the fabric snug against my growing bump, and start setting up behind the bar. The clink of bottles and the hum of the crowd are usually grounding, but not tonight. Not with Dagger in the other room.

My hands tighten around a bottle of whiskey as the thought crosses my mind—I could march down there, confront him, and let him know exactly how I feel. My blood heats at the idea. He deserves it.

Instead, I take a deep breath, shake it off, and focus on the line of customers filtering in. A guy at the bar taps his fingers impatiently.

“What can I get you?” I ask, forcing a smile.

“Whiskey sour,” he says, sliding a crumpled bill across the counter.

I nod, reaching for the shaker. My hands move on autopilot—pour, mix, strain—while my mind keeps drifting. Dagger’s voice filters in from the other room, low and sharp, and my grip on the glass tightens.

“Hey, you okay?” the guy asks as I slide his drink over.

“Fine,” I say quickly, offering another forced smile.

But I’m not fine. Every time I hear Dagger’s voice, I feel the tension rising. My fingers itch to slam down the cocktail shaker and storm in there. Instead, I plaster on a calm face, wipe down the counter, and move on to the next customer.

Drink after drink, I remind myself to stay put. Stay professional. The bar doesn’t run itself, and no matter how much I want to, now is not the time to pick a fight.

I don’t see Dagger for the rest of the night. Not in the crowd, not lurking in the corner. It’s like he disappeared, and honestly, I’m not sure if I should be relieved or worried. Did he leave? Did someone say something? I don’t know, but at least nothing exploded tonight. Small wins, I guess.

By the time the bar clears out, my feet feel like cinder blocks, and my back’s screaming for mercy. I lean against the counter, staring at the mess I’ll deal with tomorrow. Right now, I’m too wrecked to care.

As I lock the front door, Hawk steps up out of nowhere, his hands shoved into his hoodie pockets. “Damn, you look wiped,” he says, falling into step beside me as I head toward my car.

“Feel like it too,” I mutter, digging for my keys. They’re somewhere in the bottomless pit of my bag.

Hawk watches me fumble, then grabs my arm lightly to stop me. “Hey,” he says, his voice softer now. His eyes flick to mine, and for a second, I feel pinned in place. “You okay? You’ve been... I don’t know, quieter than usual.”

I shrug, letting out a tired laugh that sounds fake even to me. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Fine, huh? You’ve got ‘running on fumes’ written all over you.”

I sigh and finally pull out my keys, holding them up like a trophy. “Okay, not fine. But I’ll survive. Me and Turbo”—I rest a hand on my belly—“are going home, eating something unhealthy, and sleeping for, like, three days. That’s the dream.”

Hawk’s mouth quirks into a grin. “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out. Just don’t fall asleep at the wheel, alright?”

“I’ll be fine,” I promise, opening the car door and tossing my bag onto the passenger seat.

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