Page 39 of Thor

Seven years of carrying that responsibility, that promise. No wonder she held herself to impossible standards.

"One minute I was a normal young adult, figuring out my life, and the next I was making funeral arrangements and trying to figure out how Amy would stay in school." Mandy's hands trembled slightly as she reached for the water glass I'd given her earlier. "There was some insurance money, but not enough. I took extra accounting jobs, worked nights and weekends. Got the position at Prestige Partners because they paid better than anywhere else, even though the corporate culture there is . . ." She trailed off, shaking her head.

I knew what she wasn't saying. Prestige Partners had a reputation for grinding their employees down, demanding perfection and punishing anything less. It explained some of Mandy's more rigid professional habits—the need for control, the meticulous attention to detail, the reluctance to delegate.

"You've been taking care of her since you were barely grown yourself," I said, understanding washing over me.

"Someone had to." The first tear fell, tracing a silver path down her cheek. She brushed it away quickly, as if embarrassed by this display of emotion. "And now, when she needs me most, there's nothing I can do but watch and wait and hope the treatments work."

Another tear followed the first, then another. She turned her face away, shoulders hunching as she fought to maintain control.

"I keep thinking—" Her voice hitched. "What if she's in the fifteen percent? What if, after everything, I still lose her?"

Something in me broke watching her try so hard to stay composed when she was clearly shattered inside. I'd seen brothers in the club do the same—act tough and unaffected until the weight became too much to bear alone. Pride was a heavy burden, especially for someone who'd had to be strong for so long.

"Come here," I said softly, opening my arms.

She hesitated for just a moment, conflict clear on her face—the need for comfort warring with her lifelong habit of self-reliance. Then something gave way, a dam breaking after years of pressure. She moved toward me, first a tentative shift, then all at once folding against my chest as the first sob broke free.

I closed my arms around her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other making slow circles on her back. She felt impossibly small against me, her body shaking with the force of emotions too long contained. Her tears dampened my shirt, her fingers clutching the fabric like she might drown without an anchor.

Mandy wasn't just letting go of today's pain; she was releasing years of it, grief layered upon grief until the weight had become crushing.

Her bronze hair smelled faintly of vanilla shampoo beneath the hospital antiseptic, soft against my calloused fingers. I let her cry, understanding that sometimes breaking down was the only way to begin rebuilding. There was strength in her vulnerability, courage in her tears.

"You're doing everything you can," I murmured into her hair when her sobs had eased slightly. "Your sister knows that."

She hiccupped against my chest, her breathing ragged. "It doesn't feel like enough."

"It never does," I said, thinking of my own failures—brothers I couldn't save, promises I couldn't keep. "But that doesn't mean it isn't enough."

We sat like that for long minutes, her tears gradually slowing, her breathing evening out. I kept my arms around her, offering the physical support she so rarely allowed herself to need. My hand continued its slow circles on her back, feeling the knots of tension beneath her blouse.

Her breathing had almost returned to normal, just an occasional catch when her body remembered it had been crying. I felt her fingers uncurl from their tight grip on my shirt, smoothing over the wrinkled fabric in a small, unconscious gesture of tidying. Even now, some part of her mind was trying to restore order.

"Better?" I asked, my voice low and gentle.

She nodded against my chest, not yet ready to look up. "Sorry for falling apart."

"Nothing to be sorry for."

"You didn't sign up to be my emotional support biker," she murmured, a hint of her usual dry humor returning.

I chuckled, the sound rumbling through my chest where her ear pressed against it. "Pretty sure that was in the fine print somewhere."

That earned a small, watery laugh. She shifted slightly, adjusting her position but not pulling away. Her body fit against mine like it belonged there, soft curves against hard angles.

"Thank you for letting me cry it out," she said softly. "I've been holding that in for a long time."

"I know." My fingers stroked her hair, gently working through a tangle. "You don't have to be strong all the time, Mandy."

"It feels like I do." Her voice had changed subtly—higher, softer, with a vulnerable quality that made my chest tighten. "Everyone expects me to handle everything. To make the hard decisions. To never break down."

"Not with me," I said. "You can be whoever you need to be here."

She was quiet for a long moment, her breathing steady against my chest. When she spoke again, her voice had slipped even further into that softer register.

"It gets so tiring, being grown-up all the time. Making all the decisions. Being responsible for everyone else."

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