Page 4 of Endo

Her hands linger on mine for a moment, her gaze searching my face. “You’re not eating enough. I can see it in your eyes. You’re not sleeping well either.” Her voice is soft, but there’s an edge of worry beneath it.

I shake my head, not ready to go down that road. “I’m fine, Ma. Just... been busy with work, that’s all.”

She raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that? You’re not fooling me.” She turns back to the stove, stirring something in the pot. The smell of moussaka fills the air, and for a second, I let myself get lost in the comfort of it. The sounds of Greek music playing softly in the background, the warmth of her kitchen—all of it feels like another life. The house looks just the same as I remember it—quaint, with the kind of charm that’s hard to find anywhere else.

“I’m fine, really,” I say, more firmly this time, but I can feel the crack in my voice. I swallow, trying to keep my emotions in check.

“Reign, please,” she presses, pausing as she takes a deep breath. “I know you don’t want to talk, but you don’t have to carry all of this alone. I’m here for you.”

Her words hang heavy in the air, and for a moment, I let myself almost believe it. Almost. But I can’t. Not today.

“Ma, I’m good. I just need some space,” I mutter, not looking her in the eyes.

She doesn’t push. She never does. Instead, she pulls a plate from the counter and sets it in front of me. “Eat something before you go. I’ve made your favorite.”

I glance at the moussaka, the layers of eggplant and seasoned meat perfectly arranged, the golden top glistening with a hint ofcheese. It smells amazing—just like it always has. But the sight of it only deepens the knot in my stomach.

“I’m not hungry, Ma,” I say, pushing the plate away gently, though my voice feels raw. I’m lying, I know, but I don’t have the appetite. I can barely find the energy to do anything other than exist.

Apollo waddles over to me, and I reach down to scratch his ears, grateful for the quiet comfort of the old dog. His tail thumps softly on the floor as he leans into my touch, and for a brief moment, I allow myself to feel the warmth of it.

After a minute, I stand, brushing the crumbs off my hands, even though I haven’t touched the food. “I gotta go, Ma. I’ll talk to you soon.”

She nods, but I can tell it’s not what she wants. Her eyes linger on me, searching for something—anything—to show that I’m really okay. But I can’t give that to her. Not today.

I kiss her on the forehead, something I haven’t done in too long, and then head out the door, knowing I won’t be able to shut her out forever.

But for now, I need to be alone.

When I finally get back tomy apartment, I head straight for the kitchen and grab the bottle of whiskey from the counter. No glass. Just the bottle. I need something to dull the ache, even if it’s just for tonight.

I sink onto the couch, the laptop balanced on my thighs. The screen lights up, and I pull up an old folder labeledSpeed Demons.

The first video is from two years ago, Cruz’s voice booming through the speakers.

“Let’s go, Reign! Quit admiring yourself and get on the damn bike!”

The camera pans to Cruz, grinning like a maniac as he revs his engine. His golden hair is messy, his leather jacket catching the sunlight. Behind him, the rest of the team laughs—Talon, Sayshen, Draygon, Wolfe. We’re all there, young and untouchable.

The video cuts to the race, the roar of engines filling the screen. Cruz takes the lead, weaving through the other riders like it’s nothing. I’m close behind, the thrill of the chase written all over my face.

My chest tightens as I watch. That was us. That wasme.

The next video is more personal, taken during one of our late-night hangouts at the diner. Cruz is teasing Thorne about his terrible music taste, while Talon and I argue over lap times. The laughter is loud and unrestrained, a striking difference from the heavy, stifling quiet that lingers in my apartment now.

I reach for the whiskey, taking a long drink.

Another video starts, this one of Cruz and me fixing up my Mustang. He’s covered in grease, his hands moving expertly as he tightens a bolt.

“Gonna make this car faster than your bike, Reign,” he jokes, his grin infectious.

I hurl the glass bottle against the wall, the sound of shattering glass cutting through the room. My chest heaves, anger and grief bubbling over.

The videos keep playing, Cruz’s laughter echoing like a ghost in the dark. There’s a shot of him flying down the track, his bike roaring beneath him, the wind ripping through his hair. Then it cuts to me, leaning into a sharp turn, my muscles straining, eyes locked ahead as I push the bike to its limits. Cruz is in the background, laughing, egging me on, but it’s always me fighting the urge to break free, to take on the world with that bike asmy weapon. The team’s there too, cheering us on—me and Cruz, side by side—pushing one another to be faster, to be better.

We were a family, on and off the track. Now… it’s just a void.

I sit there, my hands covering my face, the weight of it all pressing down. The world outside might still be moving, but I’m stuck in a place that’s impossible to escape.

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