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“You’ll shoot me?” he asked, still smiling. “That’s the spirit.”

I brushed past him and went upstairs quietly, changed into leggings and Craig’s old hoodie, pulled my hair into a loose ponytail, and slid my worn sneakers on like this was just another errand. I stared at myself in the mirror for a long momentbefore heading back down, trying to find the part of me that still believed he wouldn’t hurt me. They still remembered who he used to be. It wasn’t easy.

Joey was already at the door when I came down, jingling keys in one hand and holding a thermos in the other. He didn’t look at me; he just handed me the thermos with a grunt.

“Figured your coffee probably went cold.”

I blinked. “Thanks.” He didn’t say anything; he just pushed the door open and started walking. I followed.

The late winter afternoon was cool but not cold. The cloud cover cast the world in a dreary light that made everything feel muted. The only sound was our footsteps, his heavier, more purposeful, mine careful and trailing just a half beat behind. Like always now.

His car was parked a few houses down. One of the black sedans that all the guys drove, windows tinted deep enough to make it look abandoned. He opened the passenger door for me without comment, then rounded to the driver’s side and got in.

We drove in silence for a while, the only sound the faint hum of the engine and the distant rush of cars on the freeway.

After a few minutes, I tried. “So... what exactly happened on Twelfth and Poppy?”

Joey’s jaw flexed. “Don’t know all the details. Just heard there was an ambush. Four down. Jackals probably.”

“That’s all you know?”

“Yeah.” His tone made it clear he wasn’t inviting follow-ups, but something about how his fingers tightened on the steering wheel said otherwise. His shoulders were hunched, more tense than the situation called for. He didn’t look like someone who’d heard about a disaster. He looked like someone who’dsurvivedone.

Still, I nodded like I believed him. “Okay.” We didn’t speak after that. I sipped the coffee. It was sweet. He always remembered how I took it.

When we pulled up outside the range, I frowned. The place looked deserted. No cars in the lot, lights off in the main lobby, steel roll-up gate halfway down over the storefront. Definitely not open. Joey didn’t comment. Just pulled around to the side lot, killed the engine, and got out.

I followed him as he led us around the side of the building toward a narrow, shadowed alcove where an unmarked door sat half-sunken into the wall. It didn’t have a keypad or a handle I could see; just a slim keyhole above a rust-stained doorknob.

“Are you sure this is okay?” I asked, hugging my arms against myself.

He nodded. “They know me. I’ve done this before.” Then he crouched a little, shifting his body just enough to block my view of what his hands were doing. I heard the faint snick of metal; and then the door eased open with a creak. He stepped aside and motioned me in.

I hesitated, just for a second. Something cold spidered up my spine, whispering you don’t know what he’s really doing. But I shoved it down and stepped past him into the dim hallway beyond. He followed, shutting the door quietly behind us. The lock clicked.

The range was cold. Not physically, though the air conditioning was cranked too high in here. It was the kind of cold that settled under your skin and stayed there, even if you didn’t feel it at first. The soundproofing on the walls swallowed up everything but the softest echoes of our footsteps—a dead kind of quiet.

Joey led us past the front line and down to one of the private lanes in the back. I trailed behind him, each step sending a quiet tap tap tap across the polished concrete floor.He dropped a black duffel bag on the little table in the lane and unzipped it with quick, practiced motions. A few boxes of ammo, two handguns, and safety gear. His movements were clean and methodical, like muscle memory was doing the work for him while his mind was somewhere else entirely.

I watched him from a few feet away, hands stuffed into the front pocket of my hoodie. “You okay?” He didn’t answer right away.

His jaw ticked, eyes locked on the bullets he was lining up with too much precision. “Fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” He stopped, knuckles whitening around the casing in his hand. For a second, I thought he’d ignore me, maybe snap. But then he exhaled sharply, set it down, and turned to face me.

“I’ve got so much shit in my head. Rage. Grief. Worry. Frustration. You name it, it’s in there, fighting for space. And I…” he dragged a hand down his face, eyes bloodshot, “I can’t think straight half the time. I don’t know what’s real, I don’t know who I trust, and I don’t know how to fix any of it. I just…” His gaze flicked up to mine, and for a heartbeat, he looked wrecked. “I just need to find a way to work things out.”

My chest tightened. That familiar ache returned, the one that whispered he was still in there. That there was a version of Joey I loved, who loved me, buried under all this pain and fury.

I took a step closer. “Tell me what to do. How I can help. I’ll do whatever it takes.” Something in his expression shifted. The grief was still there, but it twisted suddenly, bitter and cruel, curling into the corner of his mouth like a cracked smile.

“Why am I not surprised that’s your offer?” he said quietly, almost to himself.

“What?”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “You think getting on your back again is gonna get you back in my good graces? Thathow it works for you,Sweetheart? Keep our balls empty and we’ll look past everything you’ve done?”

The words hit like a slap. I blinked, the air stolen from my lungs. “Fuck you,” I breathed, taking a step back, turning to go.