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Marcus leaned against the desk, folding his arms as he looked at me. I swear he could read my mind. “You’re still worried Jazz will bolt.”

I nodded, the admission feeling like a weight off my chest. “Yeah. I want to be here, just in case. But it’s not only that. I can’t sleep anyway, so I might as well be useful.”

“It’s not all on you…”

I knew he was right, and part of me felt foolish thinking I had to be some kind of lone guardian through the night. But it was hard to let go of the feeling that I needed to be available.

“I know,” I said, offering a tired smile as my stomach rumbled.

Marcus clapped me on the shoulder, his smile widening. “Breakfast. Then, how about you try getting some actual sleep?”

I placed a hand over his. “How is he? Is he okay?”

Marcus tilted his head to remind me he couldn’t tell me anything. But he was calm, and his demeanor told me everything I needed to know. Jazz was okay for the moment, healing physically, with no awful blood test results back and no danger.

Safe.

As Marcus walked away, I took a moment to power down the computer, the screen’s glow fading to black. Then, yawning, I dragged myself across the hall to the kitchen, scratching at my disheveled hair. My face felt grimy, a reminder of the night spent dozing off in an uncomfortable chair. All I could think about was coffee, which promised at least a semblance of alertness.

Exhausted, I shuffled to the coffeemaker, setting it up with practiced motions. As it gurgled to life, the aroma of coffee filled the room. Spotting a lone pancake left on a plate, I grabbed it, not even bothering to heat it up. I clattered a plate onto the counter, poured excessive syrup over the cold pancake, and yawned so wide I thought my jaw might lock open.

Coffee ready, I poured it into a mug, my hand so unsteady I nearly missed. “Fuck my life,” I muttered as a few drops splashed onto my hand, only just avoiding a full-on spill.

I glanced out of the window, managing a half-hearted glare at the sunshine pouring in, blinking as I took a cautious sip of the scalding coffee. “Hurry up,” I muttered at the caffeine, the heat of it doing little to thaw my sleep-deprived brain, feeling a bit more human with each gulp of caffeine. The day was already shaping up to be a long one, but at least I wasn’t facing it alone.

I turned to lean on the counter, thinking through everything I needed to do today, then stopped.

Jazz was sitting at the breakfast table in the corner, nursing a coffee of his own, and staring right at me.

Shit. He’d seen me dragging my tired self in, observed my clumsy dance with the coffee and pancakes, and now, I was stuck, frozen under his gaze. While he looked nothing like theJazz I remembered from twenty years ago, he still had that unnerving intensity in his eyes as he focused on me. It used to be accompanied by smiles, but now, his expression was closed off. He was thin, wary, his beard was still unkempt, his hair longer than I’d ever seen it, but he was clean, and the bandages on his hand had gone and in their place was pink and healing skin.Do I say anything? Do I wish him a good morning? Do I just sidle out and pretend I haven’t noticed him staring?

After some internal debate, I decided on the most direct approach. Clearing my throat, I mustered as much cheerfulness as I could and said, “Good morning, Jazz.” Shit. Should I call him that? Or his full name? Or his rank? Why hadn’t I even asked that—it was politeness 101 to know what people wanted to be called.

He watched me for a beat longer, his expression unreadable, then nodded slightly. “Morning,” he replied, his voice rough.

I took a cautious step toward him, then another, until I was close enough to see the details of his face, the lines life had etched into his skin since we’d last seen each other. “You, uh, you doing okay this morning?” I ventured, not sure what ground stood firm between us.

Jazz shrugged. “As okay as can be, I guess,” he said, then stared back at his coffee.

I nodded, feeling the distance of years and experiences stretching between us. “If you need anything, you know, more pancakes or someone to talk to…” I let the offer hang, hoping he’d see it for the olive branch it was. All I wanted to do was talk to him and explain.

He glanced up again, meeting my eyes. There was a flicker of something there, maybe surprise or the first glimmer of acknowledgment. “Thanks,” he said, and though it was only one word, it felt like a tiny step forward.

I smiled, the tension easing a fraction. “No problem. Just, you know, holler if you need anything.”

Turning to go, I felt his eyes on me again.

“Did you make Harper give me the card?” Jazz’s question stopped me in my tracks.

“The what now?” Harper was Jazz’s daughter, someone I followed from afar, anything to get a glimpse into Jazz’s life. Not that Harper ever mentioned her dad on social media, nor her mother, to be fair.

“My daughter gave me a card for here,” Jazz explained and gestured at the kitchen, by which I assume he meant Guardian Hall. “Did you ask her to do that?”

“I don’t know her.” My heart hurt because I’d lost all chance of being part of Jazz’s life through my stupidity, including knowing his daughter.

“So why did she give me a card forthisshelter?” he asked. Unspoken was the accusation—where you are!

“I don’t know.” I was as confused as him.