Page 97 of Cyclone

He’d nearly died for me.

But more than that—

He’d stayed.

When I told him the truth.

When I fell apart.

When I couldn’t promise him anything but the mess I was still trying to clean up.

He’d stayed.

I slipped out of bed, padded into the kitchen, and made coffee—his mug, my mug, side by side.

He joined me a few minutes later, shirtless, hair sticking up, eyes sleepy but soft.

“Can I ask you something?” I said, handing him his mug.

“Always.”

“What if I never stop looking over my shoulder?”

He stepped closer.

Wrapped an arm around my waist.

Pressed a kiss to my temple.

“Then I’ll always be the one behind you.”

57

Jude

The sun was setting behind the hills, streaking the sky in gold and rose as we sat on the back porch.

Cyclone had his feet kicked up on the railing, a beer in one hand, his free arm slung around my shoulders. I leaned into him, head resting against the solid weight of his chest.

We didn’t talk for a while.

Just listened—to the wind, the birds, the soft rustle of trees.

To the quiet we’d both fought hard to earn.

Then he shifted slightly, his thumb tracing slow circles along my arm.

“What do you want, Jude?”

His voice was low, steady. No pressure. Just truth.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean now that the war’s over. Now that he’s gone. What’s next?”

I sat with the question for a while.

Let it settle in my bones.

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