Page 118 of Theirs to Hunt
Footsteps echo down the corridor. Steady. Heavy.
I know who it is before I look up.
Grayson.
He does not speak right away. Does not need to.
Just stands there, gaze flicking over me.
The bags under my eyes.
The blood on my knuckles from where I punched the car window, even though it would not break.
He exhales once. Short. Deliberate. Then sits beside me, knee brushing mine.
The silence stretches between us. Not awkward. Just dense.
Then, without warning, his hand reaches across the narrow space and grips the back of my neck.
Firm. Steady. Like he is grounding me.
"I would have lost my mind too," he says quietly. His voice is rougher than usual. Something frayed at the edges.
"You kept her alive, Brooks. You were there."
I nod.
Throat tight.
Jaw clenched.
I cannot speak. Not yet.
His hand lingers for a moment, fingers pressing into the base of my skull the way he used to when I was a kid and the world felt too big.
I did not realize how much I missed that until right now.
And just as quietly, just as deliberately, he adds,
"We do not let go of what is ours."
It is not a vow.
It is a truth.
One he is saying for me now.
Not just to me.
Then he lets go. Leans back. Pulls out his phone like nothing happened.
But I sit straighter. Breathe deeper.
He came.
For her.
For me.
