Page 22 of Better as It

That I’m safe.

I’m always safe with Justin. The world can’t touch me when I’m in his arms. He’s always been my safety net. But what happens when he’s gone again? I shake off the thought. I can’t help myself. I’m a glutton for punishment and I need to be in his arms. I need my body connected to his. I need this feeling. The way he’s always cherished me, honored me.

He moves with me, not against me. And when I come undone, it’s not in pieces but in something whole. Something warm. Something human.

We fall asleep tangled together, his heartbeat steady under my cheek.

Morning comes with golden light through the blinds. My limbs ache in a way I forgot they could. My chest is heavy but not empty.

Justin is still here.

His arms wrapped around me, our bodies close.

I trace a line on his skin, then whisper, "Just like before, nothing changes."

He exhales slowly, his voice quiet. "I know."

I roll away, needing space, needing breath. He lets me. Doesn’t chase. Doesn’t push.

It was just release. A moment. Not a promise.

And yet, for the first time in weeks, I feel the flicker of something that might one day become hope. And that isn’t about Justin.

It’s about me being me once again.

SEVEN

TOON

ONE MONTH LATER

"Life's challenges are no match for a bear's determination." — Unknown

Tripp’s voiceis gravel wrapped in steel when he gives the order. “Transport, nine one oh. Florida run. Sinister Sons. You and BW. Leave tonight.”

I don’t ask questions. Don’t need to. When Tripp gives a directive, you follow it. Loyalty isn’t just ink on my back or the leather I wear—it’s in the miles, the risk, and the silence between commands.

BW’s already loading the cargo van when I get to the garage. He tosses a grin over his shoulder like this is just another Saturday drive, not a run carrying enough gun parts to turn a good man into a felon five times over.

“Hope you packed your sunscreen, old man,” BW jokes, voice light, like it’s a vacation.

“I don’t burn. I simmer,” I deadpan, earning a smirk.

We roll out early morning when it’s still dark out, the van packed, tires humming over the asphalt like a warning. NorthCarolina slips behind us, replaced by the long southern haul—highways that stretch like promises and threats at once.

By the time we’re two states in, the weight of the job settles. No tails. No red flags. Just endless road and two patched brothers keeping their own pace.

We don’t talk much. Don’t need to. Me and BW, we’ve ridden enough together that the silence says more than words ever could. It’s just past noon when his burner rings. BW glances at the screen and answers with a grin that fades too fast.

“Hey, Ma,” His voice is lower now, careful. “What’s wrong?”

That gets my attention.

BW listens for a beat, nodding, jaw tightening. Then he lifts the phone slightly toward me. “She’s not answering anyone. Mom’s freakin’. Dia’s gone quiet.”

He pauses. “She’s been better since you came home, Toon. She’s talked to mom every day like it was before losing Clutch. She went back to work at her rescue and Karsci says she’s found ways to laugh at the dogs again. She was a shell and you came home.”

“It’s not on me, man. She wasn’t ready. It’s coincidence.”

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