Page 38 of Hymns of the Broken
I hesitate, then nod once. “Something like that.”
He lets out a long whistle, then looks over at me, a little softer now, his tone shifting. “You deserve better, you know. Any guy who lets you walk around here alone doesn’t know what he’s got.”
I glance down at my lap, unsure how to respond. Compliments have always hit me differently.
Riot notices, but he doesn’t push. “Okay,” he says, easy. “Reset. Hi. I’m Riot—government name Grayson Hale, tragically the middle child, allergic to authority and cheap cymbals.”
I snort. “Sawyer Morrigan. Trained in the ancient art of pretending I’m fine.”
He grins like I handed him a good chorus. “Nice to meet you, Sawyer Morrigan. Who put a camera in your hands first?”
“My grandpa,” I say before I can overthink it. “Disposable cameras at first. He said, ‘Shoot the stuff you think no one else sees.’ Turns out that’s most things.”
“Smart man.” Riot shifts, elbow to knee, interested rather than nosy. “What do you shoot when it’s just for you?”
“Quiet faces. Ugly light. Hands.” I shrug. “Edges of things. Proof that people are more than the loudest thing about them.”
He hums like he likes the answer. “Hands make sense. They tell on you.”
“You’re a drummer,” I counter. “Who did you copy when you were learning?”
He laughs. “We’re really doing this? Fine. Poorly—Travis Barker and Danny Carey. Secretly—my neighbor who practiced on a busted kit in his carport. Dude had a groove that made my chest ache.”
“Poorly is a requirement in the arts,” I say joking. “What’s your off-stage hobby? And if you say ‘working out,’ I’m walking into that ditch.”
***
For a while we just… exist. The blue wash of the lot softens the edges of everything, and the generator hum feels less like noise, more like a blanket. He tells me his mom danced in the kitchen to Blondie when the rent cleared; I tell him I used to develop film in a bathroom with a towel stuffed under the door. He shows me a tiny scar on his knuckle from a chipped rim; I point out the ink under my thumbnail I can’t scrub off. It’s nothing big. It’s the kind of nothing that matters.
“Okay,” he says finally, toe tapping the barrier. “Important question. If you could shoot anything tomorrow that isn’t a band, what is it?”
“Old couples who still hold hands in crosswalks,” I say, no hesitation. “Old cathedrals and cemeteries. Or the moment before a storm hits a parking lot.”
He exhales, pleased. “There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The way your voice changes when you talk about something you love.” He bumps my shoulder, gentle. “I wanted to hear that.”
Heat prickles my cheeks. “What do you want to hear right now?”
He pretends to consider. “Your laugh,” he says, then adds, lighter, “and your opinion on gas-station taquitos.”
“Felony,” I say, deadpan.
He groans. “Tragic.”
I’m still laughing when the air shifts.
The crunch of gravel cuts through the quiet like a warning. My stomach dips hard, instinct screaming even before I turn.
Riot’s grin falters. He shifts slightly, shoulders tensing.
“Well, well,” comes a voice I know too well. “What do we have here?”
Jasper steps out of the shadows, eyes burning straight through me. And behind him? Silas, Jace, Ash, and Micah.
All five of them. Like shadows materialized from hell.
