Page 22 of Pack Obsession

"And?"

"And I sat there for six hours straight, painting the worst fucking sunset you’ve ever seen." Now, there is a real laugh, low and rough. "But for the first time in years, my hands weren’t shaking with the need to hurt something."

I watch him tear up and eat more of the protein bar.

"So, you kept painting."

"Yeah." His eyes find mine again. "Turns out violence isn’t the only way to empty yourself out. Sometimes..." He pauses, and I notice a vulnerable flash across his face. "Sometimes, beauty works better than brutality."

"To stay in control?"

"Partly." He offers me the final piece of the protein bar. When I take it, his fingers brush mine, and he’s deliberate about it. I can tell he can’t get enough of touching me, and I hate to admit that I’m craving it, too. "Also, because the ocean at night doesn’t judge the darkness in a man’s soul. It just... accepts it. Mirrors it back."

"That’s deep."

The words hang between us with unspoken meaning.

"Your turn."

"My turn?"

"To share secrets in the dark. I’ve shown you mine—the cage fighter who paints oceans to keep from drowning in his own violence." His words soften, but there’s an edge to them. "What monsters are you running from?"

I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the room. His confession should make me fear him more, this man who admits to such brutality. Instead, I want to match his honesty with my own, but the words stick in my throat.

"We all have demons," he says quietly. "Some of us just learn to make art with them."

I study him, this contradiction of a man who paints and breaks bones. I shouldn’t trust him. I shouldn’t feel this pull. But in the night, with his secrets laid bare, I long to share my own.

"I used to dance. Before everything."

"Ballet?"

"Hawaiian. Hula kahiko, the ancient style. My grandmother taught me." The memory aches, but in a good way. "It tells stories through movement. Every gesture means something."

"Show me."

"What, now?" My shoulders pull back.

He turns toward me fully, one knee drawn up onto the seat. "Just one movement. One meaning."

Maybe it’s the late hour, the warmth in his eyes, or the way this room feels separate from reality, but I lift my hands. The gesture is simple—fingers curling like waves, wrists rotating in the ancient pattern.

"This movement means the sea is treacherous but beautiful."

"Best things usually are." His attention drops to my mouth, then away. He reaches for the bag of chips between us, his fingers brushing my knee. "Tell me something else. Something you’ve never told anyone."

Us embraced by the night has me feeling brave. Or maybe it’s the way he’s staring at me, as if he cares about what I have to say.

"I dream about the ocean almost every night. Even after all these years away. Like it’s calling me home."

"But you don’t go."

"Can’t." I trace patterns on the window glass, watching Logan fade into the shadows again. "Life got... complicated."

"How so? Julian Hayes?"

"I don’t want to talk about him."

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