Page 66 of Jayson
“I’ll tell you,” she whispers, “when I’m ready.”
I nod. Slow. “Fine.” I unlatch my seat belt. “But whatever it is—when the time comes—I’ll burn it down first and ask questions second.”
A tiny sound escapes her—half sob, half laugh. “That’s… terrifyingly comforting.”
“Yeah.” I push open my door. Cool air rushes in, smelling of wet earth and magnolia. “Welcome to how I show I care.”
We unload her suitcase. The thing weighs a ton, like she shoved her entire life—heartbreak, nightmares, all of it—inside and zipped it tight. She trails me up the steps. We reach her room and I set the suitcase inside. She hovers at the threshold.
For a breath we stand there, the distance between us thick with unsaid things. Then she steps in, closes the door, and leaves me in the hall with my ghosts.
I head downstairs, boots thudding against the floorboards with every heavy step. The house is too quiet, the kind of quiet that feels like it’s listening. Watching. Holding its breath.
In the kitchen, Nina’s exactly where I knew she’d be—perched at the far end of the table with her mug in hand, the same way she always is when something big shifts in the air. One knee crossed over the other, sleeves pushed up, hair pinned like she’s preparing for battle.
She glances up as I enter, eyes sharp despite the hour. “Is Keira settled?”
“She’s dangerous,” I say finally. “Not to us. To herself.”
Nina sets her mug down with a soft clink. “Explain.”
“She’s carrying too much,” I mutter. “Shame that isn’t hers. Guilt by association. That university of hers practically shoved her out the door after the Aviary headlines hit. And the people she thought were friends? Gone. Like her name suddenly meant she was contagious.”
Nina nods slowly, eyes distant. “It’s always the ones left standing that bleed the longest.”
I flex my hands, trying to shake the stiffness from my knuckles, from my chest. “She’s got more secrets under her skin than she knows what to do with.”
Nina watches me for a long beat. “And you think you’re the one that can save her?”
I snort. “I’m not sure save is the right word. But I’m already in it, aren’t I? I dragged her into this house. I took her on the second I spared her life.”
“You didn’t spare her,” she says quietly. “You saved her.”
I glance away. “Same difference.”
“No, Jayson,” she says, rising slowly. “There’s a world of difference. Sparing someone is passive. Saving someone? That’s a choice. A burden. A bond.”
“I don’t know what the hell it is,” I mutter, “but I feel like I’m standing in the middle of something I don’t fully understand.”
Nina walks over and places a hand on my arm—light, but grounding. “You don’t have to understand it. You just have to be ready for the storm when it breaks.”
I nod. Silent.
Thunder rumbles beyond the windows, low and threatening.
“Get some rest,” she says softly, retreating toward the hallway. “She’s not the only one carrying ghosts.”
28
KEIRA
Sadness doesn’t knock. It lets itself in. It moves slow, like fog over your ribs. You barely notice it—until you’re choking.
It’s not always crying in the dark. Sometimes, it’s brushing your teeth and wondering if anyone would notice if you didn’t.
It’s hearing laughter and forgetting how to join in.
Or scrolling through messages you’ll never send.
