Page 94 of Push My Buttons
"Nope." He kisses the tip of my nose. "Just be ready for a day of Theo Dawson at his most charming and attentive."
I laugh softly."So not your normal self at all?"
"Hey!" he protests, but he's laughing too. "I'm extremely charming and attentive!"
"When you want something,"I tease.
His expression turns serious again. "I want you," he says simply. "Safe. Happy. With us. That's all I've ever wanted."
The raw honesty in his voice silences my teasing. I reach up to touch his face, tracing the lines of worry that haven't fully disappeared even as he smiles.
"I'm here," I whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."
He captures my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm. "Promise?"
"Promise."
As he holds me close, I realize something important. Despite everything—the lies, the fear, the stalker still out there—I feel more myself with Theo and Jace than I have in two years. More whole. More real.
Maybe that's what love is, in the end. Not perfect protection or flawless communication, but the willingness to see each other clearly—flaws and all—and choose each other anyway. To grow together, to learn from mistakes, to build something stronger from the broken pieces.
Tomorrow, I'll go on a date with Theo. The next day, maybe I'll find the words to tell them both how I feel. And some day, I'll figure out how to live with this fear without letting it consume me. One day at a time, one choice at a time, one breath at a time.
For now, this is enough. Theo's arms around me, the promise of tomorrow, the knowledge that I'm not alone in this fight. It has to be enough.
Because the alternative—letting Levi win, letting fear steal what little happiness I've found—isn't an option. Not anymore.
I close my eyes and let myself drift, secure in Theo's embrace, listening to the distant sound of Jace's fingers on his keyboard in the living room. My boys. My home. My choice.
And tomorrow, I'll start choosing happiness instead of fear.
Chapter 35
Wren
Iwakewithastart, my heart pounding against my ribs. The bedroom is bathed in darkness, shadows stretching across unfamiliar shapes until my eyes adjust and I recognize the dresser, the chair in the corner, the door slightly ajar. Home. I'm home, not in the hospital.
The space beside me is warm, and I turn to find Theo sprawled on his back, one arm flung above his head, his breathing deep and even. His face is softer in sleep, the worry lines smoothed away, making him look younger. Vulnerable.
I reach out, my fingers hovering just above his chest, feeling the heat radiating from his skin without actually touching him. The steady rise and fall of his breathing is hypnotic, grounding.
But something feels off.
I roll to my other side, expecting to find Jace's lean form curled toward me as usual, but the sheets are cold and empty. My stomach clenches, an instinctive flare of panic that I immediately recognize as irrational. Just a trauma echo, Dr. Levine would say. My brain interpreting absence as danger.
I take a deep breath, forcing the anxiety back. Jace is fine. He's here somewhere.
The apartment is unnervingly quiet after the constant bustle of the hospital—the beeping monitors, the squeaking shoes on linoleum, the murmured conversations of nurses changing shifts. Here, the silence presses against my ears, broken only by Theo's soft breathing and the distant hum of the refrigerator.
Then I hear it—a faint sound from the living room. A murmur, too low to make out words.
I slip from the bed, careful not to disturb Theo. The floor is cool beneath my bare feet as I pad toward the door, guided by the thin strip of light visible beneath it. My head still aches dully, a persistent reminder of my fall, but the pain has subsided to a manageable throb.
The living room is dimly lit by a single lamp, casting long shadows across the furniture. Jace sits on the couch, his back to me, shoulders hunched forward in concentration. The VR headset covers the upper half of his face, the small indicator light glowing blue in the semi-darkness. His fingers move through the air, manipulating unseen elements in whatever virtual world he's exploring.
"Rendering is still lagging on the water effects," he mutters to himself, unaware of my presence. "Need to optimize the particle system. Maybe reduce the poly count on the background elements..."
I lean against the doorframe, watching him work. Even with half his face obscured, I can read the intensity in his posture, the total absorption in his task. This is Jace in his element—problem-solving, creating, lost in the world of numbers and code that makes perfect sense to him.
