Page 102 of Freestyle
I swallow hard, the words thick in my chest. “I didn’t know how to ask. I thought if I said it out loud, it would make it more real.”
Fallon leans back in the chair and exhales slowly. “Itwasreal. But you’re still here, and so are we.”
There’s a long, aching beat of quiet.
Then Lyndsy says softly, “Gray hasn’t left the hospital once. Not even for a second.”
My stomach flips.
She looks me dead in the eye, voice gentle but unwavering. “He looked at me like he thought I was going to pull you away from him. Like you were already part of him, and he couldn’t figure out how to survive if you weren’t.”
Fallon nods. “And Nix… he’s different. Quieter. Like something in him broke open and he’s not even pretending to patch it back up this time.”
I stare down at the blanket across my lap, trying not to shatter all overagain.
“He’s been watching you breathe like it’s gospel,” Fallon adds, softer now. “Like every inhale means he gets to believe in second chances.”
I don’t respond. I can’t. The tears are too close.
But Lyndsy reaches for my hand.
“You’re not just loved, Rowyn,” she says. “You’rewanted. Every jagged piece.”
And for the first time, I think I’m beginning to believe that maybe they’re right.
Twenty Seven
Grayson
Istepoutintothehallway. The hospital fluorescents buzz above me, and the scent of antiseptic is sharp in the back of my throat. I pull my phone from my pocket with fingers still crusted in fading bandages and blood, my thumb hovering over the contact that’s never saved under a name.
Just a number.
But I’ve known it by heart since I was eight.
The line rings twice. Then, “Gray.”
Not a question. Just certainty.
I swallow hard. “Hey. I know it’s late.”
There’s a pause on the other end, long enough that I consider hanging up.
“You’re breathing. So’s the girl. Which means everything else is background noise.”
My jaw tightens. The familiar rasp of his voice is always calm, always controlled, like nothing ever surprises him. Probably because nothing does. Not when you’ve built an empire on secrets and blood.
“I just...” My voice breaks a little. I clear my throat. “I know what you did. After.”
He doesn’t say anything, but I can picture it, his office; quiet, spotless, glass of whiskey half full. Like Alberto never existed, like my phone call is just another transaction in a long ledger of debts.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say softly.
Now he laughs, a low, unimpressed sound. “Of course I did. He touched what’s ours.”
I flinch at the word.
Ours.
