Page 127 of Hard Knot

They're more recent, their surfaces still bright and untarnished. Competition after competition, marking progression from novice to expert marksman. The categories vary — rifle, pistol, long-range — but the results are consistently impressive.

First place. First place. First place.

A collection of Polaroids fills the spaces between the medals, telling their own story in faded colors and captured moments. A young boy — couldn't be more than twelve — holds a rifle that looks too big for him, but his stance is perfect. An older man stands beside him, pride evident in his bearing despite the formal pose.

The photos progress through the years: the boy growing taller, his hold on the weapon becoming more natural, the older man's hair graying but his proud smile unchanged.

Until suddenly...he's not there anymore.

The final photo shows Holmes — and there's no mistaking him now, even without the blindfold — standing alone with his rifle.

His expression is different in this one.

Harder.

The easy confidence of youth is replaced by something more rigid, more controlled.

What happened to change him so completely?

Something about that last photo makes my chest ache. The contrast between the boy who beamed at his victories and the man who hides behind silk is stark enough to hurt.

A soft sigh escapes me as I shift my attention to the bedside table, where a ceramic bowl of water sits beside neatly stackedtowels. One cloth, still damp, drapes over the bowl's edge; evidence of someone's careful attention during my fever.

The realization that someone stayed to tend to me brings heat to my cheeks that has nothing to do with a fever. Fragments of memory surface: the shower, my breakdown, Holmes finding me...

Oh God.

I told him everything.

Everything.

My hand moves unconsciously to my throat as I remember gripping his, the way he just...let me.

Didn't fight back.

Didn't try to stop me.

Just listened.

The shirt I'm wearing — definitely not mine — draws my attention as I try to process the jumbled mess of emotions coursing through me. It's soft, well-worn in that way clothes get when they're favorites, with the logo of "Precision Point Range" emblazoned across the front.

I know that place, or know of it, at least.

It's one of those elite shooting facilities that usually has a two-year waiting list just to get considered for membership. I'd looked into it back when I was researching self-defense options, but the exclusivity had seemed ridiculous at the time.

Now it makes sense.

The Holmes family name would open doors even at a place like that. Though looking at those medals, it wasn't just the name that earned him access.

The shirt smells clean but carries traces of a scent I'm starting to recognize: cedar and winter air, with undertones of gunpowder and something enriched. It's distinctively Holmes, but without the overwhelming Alpha pheromones that usually make my instincts go haywire.

He washed it first.

The realization hits unexpectedly hard.

Such a small consideration, but it speaks volumes about the man behind the carefully constructed walls.

Looking around this room — at the evidence of who Holmes was and is, at the careful balance of light and shadow, at all the little touches that make it feel like an actual sanctuary rather than just another display of wealth.

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