Page 67 of Yours to Break

Hayes tilted his head slightly, watching me in that intense way he always did—like I was a puzzle he didn’t mind solving over and over, so long as he got to keep all the pieces.

I nodded, smiling as I sat up. “Yeah. I’m good.”

Lane gave my hand a final squeeze before letting go. “Text me when you get back?”

“I will.”

Hudson’s hand found the small of my back as I walked past, comforting me without a word.

It was time to go home. I’d never get tired of hearing that word.

24

Hayes

The drive back was quiet, just the way I liked it.

Oliver leaned against the passenger door, half-asleep, his head against the window. The streetlights passed in slow rhythm, casting gentle shadows across his face. His breath fogged the glass a little with each exhale, and I kept catching myself glancing over, like I needed to confirm he was still there, still safe, still ours.

Before him, our lives had been clean in the way a scalpel was clean—sharp, functional, and cold. Hudson and I had rules, routines, and an understanding of the world that required precision, not softness.

And then Oliver showed up with his big, hurting heart and that adorable little smile like he didn’t realize how much light he carried. He expressed his emotions so beautifully. He cried without shame. He laughed like it cracked open the air. He clung to us like he wasn’t sure we’d stay—but hoped we would anyway.

I pulled into the driveway, killed the engine, and looked over at him again. He stirred a little, eyes fluttering open, sleepy and soft.

“Home?” he mumbled.

“Yeah,” I said. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”

He nodded, reaching for my hand without thinking, like it was second nature now. Like trusting me was easy.

And even though I’d never say it out loud, I squeezed his hand back just a little too tightly.

Because somehow, without trying, Oliver had become the only thing in this fucked-up world I was afraid to lose. I was sure Hudson felt the same. I’d shoot him any day if I needed to in order to keep Oliver by my side.

Inside, the house was dim and calm, the way Oliver liked it after a long day. Hudson had already moved ahead of us, flicking on the soft amber light in the hallway and toeing off his boots.

Oliver shrugged off his jacket and let it fall onto the entryway bench without thinking, like he belonged here—which he did. He’d long since stopped asking permission to take up space. I picked the jacket up and hung it properly on the coat rack.

I watched him silently for a moment, just admiring him, then reached out and gently brushed a stray curl from his forehead. “Shower or bed?” I asked, voice low but warm. “Or bath, if you want.”

Oliver blinked up at me, taking longer than normal to process my words. “Bed. Definitely bed.”

“Figured.”

While Oliver padded up the stairs toward the bedroom, Hudson moved into the kitchen and flicked on the kettle. I joined him without needing to ask what he was doing. We moved like mirror images, practiced and quiet, pulling down a mug and dropping in Oliver’s favorite tea—a calming chamomile-lavender blend he insisted helped him sleep better.

“He’s quieter tonight,” Hudson said, voice hushed like they were in church.

“He talked with Lane. Got some things out, I think.” I paused, then added, “He cried a little. Smiled a little too.”

Hudson hummed, “Good, he needs that. The feeling stuff.”

“You say that like you don’t,” I dramatically scoffed.

Hudson gave me a flat look, but there wasn’t any animosity behind it.

When we brought the tea up into the bedroom, Oliver was curled in a ball under the covers, one arm flopped across his face. He peeked out when he heard us approach, smiling sleepily.

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