Page 55 of Breaking Point

There’s not a lot I wouldn’t do if I thought she was in danger. But I offer a smirk. Not a confirmation, nor a denial.

Olivia scoffs, rolling her eyes with a smile. “I’m starting to think he gets off on making people scared of him.”

A laugh cracks out of Ricky. “So I’m not the only one?”

She laughs, adjusting her dress. “Honestly, for someone who doesn’t like coffee or croissants, I’m surprised you’ve made it this long.”

She’s teasing, of course. But I still raise a brow. “Meaning?”

“I would’ve thought natural selection would’ve weeded you out by now.”

Olivia and Ricky lapse into conversation, laughing and talking about life. All the while, I try my best not to notice her smile. It isn’t the forced smile- the one that doesn’t reach hereyes. This one is real. The light of the market reflects across her blue eyes.

Happiness, I recognize.

After the week she’s had, she deserves it. It must be an hour that they go back and forth, and I spend most of it watching as a sleepy haze falls over her like a blanket. Her eyes slowly droop as she sags against the alley wall.

“You’re fading on me, Ms. Livia,” Ricky teases her.

Her eyes pop open. “I would… never.” She’s barely sitting upright, and when she nods off again, I carefully haul her into my arms as she stirs. Her head eventually lulls aside.

“Goodnight.” I dip my chin in farewell, but his voice stops me as I go:

“If you were wondering… She’s good people.”

The look on his face is not quite a smile, not quite a frown. Maybe he’s telling me because he knows I haven’t allowed myself to consider the possibility that sheisgood.Kind.

Thoughtful.

“I know.”

The apartment is dark when I step inside, but at the sound of the lock chirping, Olivia’s eyes slowly open. I lower her to her feet gently. She wobbles a bit as Chesna purrs from the couch. She’s too weak to greet us like she usually does, and Olivia frowns, kneeling down.

“Hi, Ches,” she whispers, resting her head beside Chesna’s stomach. And then… just when I least expect it, she asks, “How did she die? Winter.”

I freeze at the question, not really sure whether to answer.

“Addiction. Blood loss. Hard to blame it on any one thing,” I answer quietly. “She owed some bad people money… and I found out too late.”

For a long time, she’s quiet. No condolences. No pity. Just three impossibly long seconds before she asks again, “Do you blame yourself?”

“Used to.”

Another long second passes.

“And now?”

With a sigh, I feel myself answer softly, “I’m learning to let it go.”

It’s probably the closest I’ve ever come to explaining grief to anyone. It’s never about getting over it. It’s about learning to live with it. Yet I don’t feel the need to explain any of that to her.

She knows.

“It’s lonely, isn’t it?” she rasps, and I close my eyes. "Is she the reason you left the military?" she asks sleepily.

I sigh, opening my eyes again to look at her. I don't think I've talked to anyone about why I left.

But with her it feelseasy.

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