Page 19 of Make Them Bleed
Her reply arrives a minute later:
Juno: Got it. Bringing more stuff. Thank you.
Three little words from behind her screen, but they thump against my rib cage like fists.
Knight slaps another magazine into his pixel-blaster. “You okay, dude?”
I pocket the phone. “Yeah. Just—ready to make a difference.”
“Hell yeah.” He unpauses the game. “Dibs on the rocket launcher.”
The digital carnage resumes, neon streaks lighting our improvised HQ, but my thoughts drift to Juno walking into this echoing print shop, trusting Hoover with the last pieces of her shattered heart. And me standing there, face hidden behind the worst president mask in history, trying to be her hero while praying she never sees how scared I really am.
I can’t promise I won’t break her trust.
I can promise I’ll never let anyone break her again.
9
Juno
I’ve lost the ability to breathe around Arrow Finn.
Not in a melodramatic, oh-my-corset, Victorian fainting-couch way. More like every inhale sticks somewhere behind my ribs and refuses to leave, because apparently that’s where my best friend lives now—inside my chest, rearranging the furniture of my feelings without permission.
Tonight is supposed to be easy: sweatpants, pizza, and our semi-sacred tradition of “Netflix and aggressively not thinking about our problems.” We’ve done it a hundred times—back when Arby was alive and life felt wide-angle and brightly filtered. But tonight my tiny living-room sofa suddenly feels intimate, like an invitation I’m not sure I’m brave enough to send.
Arrow stands in my doorway balancing two pizzas, a six-pack of ginger beer, and the softest grin I’ve ever seen on a human. Oversized hoodie, wind-mussed hair, a smudge of code-ink (aka dry-erase marker) on the back of his left hand. He looks devastatingly ordinary and impossibly dear.
“Delivery for the grief gremlin,” he says.
I snort. “Pretty sure grief gremlins only eat soggy cereal at three a.m.”
“Great,” he deadpans, stepping inside. “I got pepperoni and existential dread on thin crust.”
I tug the pizzas from his arms. “The secret topping Italians never want you to know about.”
We kick off our shoes, settle on opposite ends of the sofa, and wedge a throw pillow between us like a neutral zone. I hit play onThe Great British Bake Off—comfort viewing: pastel tents, sugar highs, zero murders. The episode hums in the background while Arrow and I demolish half a pie. Crumbs collect on my leggings, but I don’t care; he’s already told me I could wear a trash-bag and still be “top tier.”
Thirty minutes in, I realize I’m not watching the show—I’m watching him. Every time he laughs at a punny cake failure, the corners of his eyes crinkle just a bit. There’s a freckle on his nose I swear wasn’t there before, and the way his throat works when he swallows ginger beer is…weirdly captivating.
When did your best friend’s Adam’s apple become haute couture?my brain squeaks.
I flush, grab the remote, and turn down the volume. “Hey, Arrow?”
He looks over, cheeks bulging chipmunk-style with pizza crust. He swallows. “Yeah?”
“You good? You look wiped.”
I should be grateful he deflects the question back to me—as usual—but something in his gaze tonight is sharper, more searching. The pillow between us suddenly feels like a barrier I want to punt across the room. “No, you looked wiped, are you good?”
“I’m…hanging in,” I say, which is shorthand for I’m lying to you every day and it’s killing me. “How’s work with Maddox? Still hacking the Pentagon on your lunch breaks?”
He grins. “Strictly theoretical hacking. Dean keeps me busy sanitizing municipal firewalls.”
“You? Dragging Saint Pierce into the twenty-first century. Hero.” I toast him with my ginger beer.
His smile thins into a line of concern. “For real, Junebug, you okay? You’ve been extra quiet. Quieter thanusualquiet.”
