Page 132 of Jayson
I reach up and cup her jaw, my thumb brushing just beneath her eye where tears threaten. “But I can promise this: as long as I’m breathing, no man will ever touch you without consequence.” My voice cracks—just once, but it shatters something inside me. “Ever again.”
She closes her eyes. Her breath stutters. And when she looks at me, there’s no accusation left. Just pain, and understanding.
“You’re not good,” she whispers.
“No, I’m not.”
“But you’re safe.”
“Always.”
“You’d burn the world for me.”
I nod, throat tight. “Twice, if it didn’t burn clean enough the first time.”
She leans forward. Our foreheads press together, her breath hitching against my lips.
“Even if I walk away tomorrow?”
“I’ll guard you from a distance,” I swear. “And kill anyone who follows.”
“Even if I hate you someday?”
“I’ll bury the feeling next to anyone who tries to weaponize it.”
She pulls back just enough to look me in the eye, like she needs to see if I mean it.
“And if I love you now?” she asks, voice a hair above broken.
I close my eyes. And for the first time in years, I let the war inside me fall still.
“Then I’ll spend whatever’s left of this violent, damned life proving you weren’t wrong to do so.”
Her mouth brushes mine—not hunger. Not lust. Just... understanding. A kiss like a wound closing.
I don’t move when she pulls away. Because that’s what you do when you’re in the presence of something sacred.
We sit like that—foreheads pressed, knees touching, her hand gentle against my cheek. The fire’s glow flickers across our wreckage, and for once, the storm inside me spinswithher instead of against her.
She leans in, presses her lips to my scar. A seal. A benediction. When she pulls back, her eyes shine—but she’s steadier.
“Come back to me, Jayson” she murmurs.
I rise and extend my hand to her—not as a demand, not as a claim, but as an offering. She takes it without hesitation. No chains. No conditions. Just a silent understanding forged in the wreckage we’ve both crawled out of.
Because sometimes, when two traumas collide, they don’t explode. They fuse. And in that fusion, even if surrounded by ruin, there can be a quiet corner carved out just for softness.
Even if it’s blood-ringed and battle-scarred—it’s still ours.
51
KEIRA
At noon, Lula appears in my doorway like a soft knock on a locked heart.
She’s barefoot, dressed in black yoga pants and a faded zip hoodie, her hair piled into a loose, messy bun that somehow looks both effortless and intentional. She leans against the doorframe like she’s been here before—not in this hallway, but in this moment. In this kind of ache.
“You up for some company?” she asks gently, not pushing, not presuming.
