Page 89 of Reckless: Chaos

Just before the final jump, he glances at me—really looks at me—and something in his expression makes my chest ache. Like he’s seeing echoes of someone else who calculated every risk.

The final jump requires perfect timing—a fact I know because Jinx drilled it into me weeks ago. Three steps for momentum, push off at exactly the right angle, tuck and roll on impact.

We hit the greenhouse roof simultaneously, our combined landing echoing through the glass panels.

“Not bad.” He’s barely breathing hard, the show-off. “For someone who has to calculate trajectory mid-jump.”

“Says the man who counted my steps.” I adjust the beanie where it slipped during the landing. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you mouthing the numbers.”

Something flickers across his face—there and gone like corrupted data. His hand lifts like he might touch the hat, then drops.

“Emma used to do that,” he says quietly. “Count everything. Said it helped make sense of the chaos.”

The name hits like a security breach—unexpected, important. In two months, I’ve never heard him mention an Emma.

“Your...” I trail off, letting him choose what to share.

“Sister.” He moves to the edge of the greenhouse, moonlight catching the tension in his shoulders. “She is the one who taught me that jump. Said if you’re going to be crazy, might as well be crazy with style.”

The way he saysisinstead ofwasmakes something in my chest crack. I stay quiet, letting him find the words.

“She’s also the one who taught me to knit.” His laugh holds broken glass. “Said my hands needed something to do besides break things.”

“Your hands needed something to do besides break things.” I echo softly, recognizing the weight of shared chaos.

“Yeah.” He traces a pattern on the glass roof, something that might be binary code or might be nothing at all. “She was good at that—finding ways to channel the crazy. Turn it into something...” He gestures at the hat. “Something useful.”

I wait, letting him choose how much to share. Sometimes silence says more than any prompt could.

“She was fifteen.” His voice drops lower, rougher. “When the shooting started, she pushed me out of the way. Her and mom both just...” His hand forms a fist against the glass. “System crash. No recovery possible.”

The tech metaphor hits harder coming from him. I reach out, not quite touching. “The hat...”

“She made me one every winter.” Now his laugh holds something wet. “Said green brought out my crazy eyes. Called it her anti-chaos program—like wearing something she made could somehow keep me grounded.”

“Did it work?”

“You remind me of her. The way you try to make order out of chaos. The way you calculate every risk while pretending you’re not carrying the weight of everyone else’s safety.”

Oh.

Oh.

The hat suddenly feels heavier, weighted with meaning I didn’t understand until now. This wasn’t just Jinx giving me something warm to wear.

This was him recognizing a mirror.

“You gave me her colors,” I whisper, understanding hitting like a DDoS attack. “Her protection program.”

“Yeah.” He looks away, but not before I catch the shine in his eyes. “Figured if anyone could handle that kind of legacy...”

He breaks off, muscles coiling with barely contained emotion. Without thinking, I close the distance between us, letting my shoulder brush his. Offering an anchor.

“Tell me about her?” The request comes quiet, careful. Like approaching volatile code.

“She was...” His breath catches. “Fucking brilliant. Could do calculus in her head while painting her nails. Had this laugh that could cut through any darkness. And she never...” His voice breaks. “She never gave up on me. Even when I was at my worst.”

The parallel sits heavy between us. How many times has he pulled me back from my own edges? How many times has he matched my chaos with his own until both of us found steady ground?

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