Page 53 of The Sniper

He shifted again, voice quieter now. “You didn’t give something away tonight. You shared something. And I swear to you, I didn’t take it lightly.”

I turned my head a little, just enough to see him out of the corner of my eye. His face was calm, serious. Not smug. Not satisfied. Just … steady.

“I know I’m not the kind of man your family ever imagined for you,” he said. “But if you think I’m gonna look at you differently now—like you’re less, or stained, or whatever your church put in your head—you’re wrong.”

He reached over, gently tucking a damp strand of hair behind my ear.

“I see you the same way I did before tonight. Brave. Soft in the places that matter. Fire in the ones that don’t want to burn anymore.”

I blinked fast, tears slipping free.

“You don’t have to be okay yet,” he said. “But you also don’t have to regret something just because it doesn’t fit in a box someone else built for you.”

That broke something loose.

Not another sob, not another collapse.

Just the smallest flicker of something warm in the cold. Like a match struck in a cave. The faintest hint of light.

I turned toward him slowly, unsure if I was reaching for comfort or clarity or just something to ground me in the moment. But his arms opened, and I went, tucking myself back against him—not because it madeeverything make sense, but because I didn’t want to be alone with the ache of trying to.

He held me close, breath steady, hand resting on my spine like an anchor.

I let myself be held without apology.

Without shame.

Just two people trying to find meaning in the wreckage.

And maybe—if I let myself believe it—something holy in the mess.

His hand moved slow along my spine, warm against the cool sheet I still held wrapped around me like armor. I didn’t know how long we sat there, quiet, breathing in sync.

Eventually, I spoke.

“What happened to her?” I asked softly, my cheek still against his chest. “Your mother?”

He didn’t answer right away. I felt the rise and fall of his breath shift—more shallow now, more guarded.

“I was a kid,” he said finally. “I don’t remember much. Just that one day she was there … and the next, she wasn’t.”

I pulled back slightly, enough to see his face. His jaw was set, but not hard. Like he wasn’t angry anymore—just used to the ache.

“No goodbye?” I asked.

He shook his head once. “No note. No warning. My older brothers tried to keep it together, kept saying she was coming back. But even then, I think we all knew.”

I didn’t press. Just reached for his hand and traced the scar along his thumb.

“We grew up on Sullivan’s Island,” he added after a moment. “Old house near the beach. Weathered as hell,paint peeling, porch that creaked like a haunted movie set. But it was ours. Just me and my brothers, raising each other the best we could.”

His voice softened when he said that last part, like the memory still sat close to his chest.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

He shrugged. “Don’t be. It made us who we are. We looked out for each other. Still do.”

I nodded slowly, then surprised myself by saying, “I always wondered what that would feel like. Having a sibling.”

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