Page 89 of Found by the Pack
But Boone—Boone yelling at me like that—hits deeper than any of it. Because he’s not just my friend. He’s family.
And I don’t know if I just cracked something between us that can’t be fixed.
The rest of the morning drags like I’m wading through molasses. I try to distract myself with routine—laundry, dishes, hell, I even scrub the grout in the bathroom tiles just to give my hands something to do. But every mundane chore only underlines the gnawing pit in my stomach.
My mind keeps circling back to Sadie’s face, to the way she smiled politely last night but her eyes kept darting toward me when I went quiet. Did she feel it? Did she know I was struggling not to snap in half?
If she did, that means Boone’s right. I made her doubt herself. And that’s the last thing she needs.
By noon, I give up on the apartment and walk down to the station. Maybe paperwork will keep me occupied.
It doesn’t. Every time someone laughs in the break room, I flinch, thinking it’s at me. Every time a phone rings, my heart leaps, like maybe Boone decided to call and tell me to go to hell one more time.
But there’s nothing. Just silence and hollow routine.
By late afternoon, exhaustion sets in. The kind that isn’t physical—it’s bone-deep, like my soul’s been wrung out.
I try lying down, but the second I close my eyes, images crash through: Sawyer’s face the night he died, the look in Boone’s eyes when I admitted I liked Sadie, Camilla’s smile before we lost her. Ghosts of every choice I’ve made, every mistake I can’t undo.
The nap doesn’t happen.
Instead, I end up sitting on the floor with my back against the couch, head in my hands, wondering how the hell I got here. How I became the guy who hurts the people he cares about most.
By the time evening rolls around, the sky outside my window is a deep wash of purple and burnt orange, the kind of sunset that usually steadies me. Tonight it just feels mocking, like the universe is reminding me life keeps moving even when I’m stuck in the wreckage.
That’s when my phone buzzes. Shepard’s name lights up the screen.
For a moment, I consider letting it go to voicemail. If Boone hasn’t already told him about the fight, he will soon, and Shepard’s going to tear into me like I deserve. Do I really want to hear that tonight?
But my thumb betrays me, sliding across the screen.
“Yeah?” My voice comes out rough.
“You want to grab a drink?” Shepard’s voice is even, casual, like he’s calling about the weather.
I huff a humorless laugh. “What, you’re not calling to yell at me?”
There’s a pause, then the faintest trace of amusement in his tone. “No. Boone did enough yelling for both of us, I’m guessing. And besides, you beat yourself up more than I ever could.”
The words land heavier than any lecture. Because they’re true. Shepard’s always had this way of cutting straight to the marrow without raising his voice. He doesn’t need to. He sees right through me.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, leaning back against the couch. “Yeah, well. He had a point.”
“I know,” Shepard says simply. No judgment, no bite—just fact. “That’s why I’m asking if you want a drink. Sulking alone isn’t going to help.”
I let out a long breath. “I don’t know if I’m in the mood.”
“You don’t have to be,” Shepard replies. “That’s the point.”
For a second, I want to argue. But the truth is, my walls are paper-thin tonight, and maybe I need to get out of my own head before I drown in it.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Where?”
“The Cliffs,” he says. “Figured we could sit outside, less people.”
Of course he thought about that. Shepard always does.
“Alright,” I say, and hang up before I can change my mind.
