Page 43 of Carrick
Then, somehow, we landed in the same group home. Concrete walls. Shared rooms. Plastic cots. But he was there. He was mine again. And after that, we refused to let go.
We bounced through foster homes, state facilities, and shelters that smelled like bleach and sorrow. He was fire. I wassteel. He fought first; I thought fast. He cracked jokes to defuse the tension. I learned how to read the room so we could survive. He gave me the better pillow. I gave him my dessert. And when a foster dad grabbed me too hard, Rayden jumped in swinging, didn’t even hesitate. He was just a kid. But he bled for me.
So when he vanished, it wasn’t just loss. It was amputation. A clean cut straight through the center of me.
The message was just one line. No voice. No details.
Trust no one. Get out of Kansas City.
He knew I wouldn’t listen. Of course he did. Rayden had always known me—better than anyone. Knew I wouldn’t sit still while the only person who’d ever been my constant vanished into the dark. Knew I’d come. And that’s what terrified me.
Because Rayden didn’t scare easy.
If he was scared, it meant something worse was coming.
I leaned forward, elbows on knees, face in my hands. My ass still ached from the night before—Carrick’s voice low in my ear, his presence peeling me apart and piecing me back together like it was sacred work.
And for a few hours, I hadn’t thought about Rayden. Not once.
The guilt split through me like a fault line. I’d needed that break—but how could I want anything here? How could I take pleasure while my brother bled somewhere in the shadows? This house—was it sanctuary or sentence? Safety that tasted like guilt?
I wrapped my arms tighter, trying to press the ache into silence. I wanted to scream. To rewind time. To tear down every wall between me and whatever choice had led us here.
Instead, I sat still, jaw locked around everything I didn’t want to name.
A knock broke the silence. Two soft taps. Measured. Controlled.
Carrick. Of course it was.
I stood, drew the blanket tighter, and opened the door.
He didn’t speak. Just looked at me the way only he could—like he knew exactly where I’d gone in my head. Like he’d been there too.
“Niko filled me in on what they found. You okay?” he asked, voice low.
“No,” I said, honest and raw. “But I’m trying not to panic.”
He gave a small nod. “You want space?”
I hesitated. Then, with a heavy sigh, I said, “No. I want company. Just... quiet company.”
He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and didn’t ask questions. He just sat on the edge of the bed and opened his arms.
And I went. No hesitation. No words.
Just folded into him, bones aching, mind spinning, and let myself fall into his steady silence. And for the second time in two days, Carrick held me together without needing to fix me.
Just bybeing there.
And that was the scariest part of all. Because it made me want to stay.
We sat like that for a long time. Carrick didn’t speak.
He didn’t ask questions, didn’t prod or push. Just kept one hand low on my back, fingers moving in a slow, lazy rhythm that anchored me more than any words could. His other hand rested on his thigh, relaxed but ready. Always ready. That was who he was—a man built for violence and steadiness in equal measure.
I’d thought that would scare me.
But somehow, it didn’t.
