Page 29 of My End
The moonlight spilled across the stone path like spilled milk and softened the sharp edges of the hedges, bathing the flowerbeds in silver. It was late. Too late to be walking the grounds in bare feet and a thrifted cardigan, but I couldn’t sleep.
Not after that dinner. Not after sitting across from Craig Gibbs, whose eyes lingered too long. Not after watching Jake stand there so silent and unreadable, like a statue carved from stone and secrets.
I padded quietly across the cool stone and let the night air clear the last of the wine from my head. I hadn’t had that much—just one glass of sangria. I had sipped carefully through the awkwardness, but it buzzed in my veins like static. Boone being home always turned the house into something rigid and rehearsed, like a stage set where we all played our roles. Except this time, there was something else underneath it all. Something darker.
My fingers grazed the petals of a tall rose bush that was still heavy with late-summer blooms. The scent clung to my skin like a memory. I exhaled, long and slow, then turned the corner toward the west garden. It was the furthest part from the house and was tucked behind an iron trellis thick with vines, and normally, I didn’t venture out this far at night.
But tonight, the painting could wait. The quiet was what I needed.
Or so I thought.
As I stepped past the hedge line, my breath caught.
Jake.
He sat on one of the low stone benches near the koi pond, with his elbows on his knees and his massive frame hunched slightly forward. The moonlit outline of him was all sharp anglesand long lines, like a shadow made real. Smoke curled up from the cigarette pinched between his fingers.
I froze and debated whether to turn back and retreat before he noticed me, but that would’ve felt cowardly.
“Can’t sleep either?” I asked softly and stepped forward.
His head lifted just enough for me to see the glint of his eyes. “Night shift fucks you up,” he said. “Still wired like I should be guarding doors at two in the morning.”
I gave a soft hum of agreement and walked toward the bench and sat next to him. “Same,” I murmured. “Except for me, it’s the painting. Sometimes I dream in brushstrokes.”
He flicked his ash into a low dish beside him. “You dream in color; I dream in exits and security codes. Hell of a contrast.”
A beat passed in silence. The pond bubbled quietly beside us as the water trickled through the filter system like an ambient lullaby. I could’ve left it at that. Should’ve.
But I didn’t.
“I saw you at dinner,” I said and folded my arms around myself.
“Yeah,” he said after a pause. “I saw you too.”
There was something unspoken between us. Like we were standing on opposite sides of a window, seeing each other but not hearing clearly.
I turned my head to look at him. “You seemed… on edge,” I added, and watched the curve of his jaw as he looked back out at the water. “Why are you in a place like this?”
“Having Boone and Gibbs in the house finally will do that to you,” he muttered, and then his gaze flicked toward me, sharp as a blade. “Gibbs your usual dinner company when Boone’s around?”
I blinked. “No. God, no. He’s just… Boone’s associate. A colleague, I guess.” I paused. “Why?”
Jake shrugged, but it wasn’t casual. Not at all. “Looked like Boone was trying to matchmake the two of you.”
My stomach dipped. “Ew. Seriously?”
He snorted, a dry almost-laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“What?” I narrowed my gaze at him. “You think I’m into Gibbs? That man gives me the creeps.”
Jake didn’t answer at first. He ground out the cigarette into the stone dish, then sat back against the bench with his legs stretched out in front of him. “I don’t know what you’re into,” he said finally. “Just know you’re too soft for this place.”
The words sat heavy between us. I wasn’t sure if he meant it as an insult or a compliment.
“Soft doesn’t mean weak,” I said.
“No,” he agreed. “But soft cracks easier.”
