Page 22 of Always You (Guardian Hall #1)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Alex

When I returned to Guardian Hall, my thoughts were heavy and conflicted. I couldn’t help but wish I had stayed longer at the shelter with Jazz. The image of him wrapping the tiny, shivering kittens against his chest, tucking them beneath his shirt nestled in a soft blanket, lingered—a moment of pure tenderness.

Despite the warmth of that memory, I knew it wasn't my role to hover and smother him with my presence. Jazz needed space to grow and thrive on his own terms, not just under my watchful, often overly concerned gaze. So, I walked straight to the office, determined to refocus on my responsibilities.

Marcus was already at work, engrossed in listing supplies needed for the upcoming weeks. He didn't acknowledge me as I entered, allowing me a moment to collect my thoughts and school my features into something resembling professional neutrality.

However, deep down, I knew what I felt was far from professional or neutral. The same love I'd discovered for Jazz in our teenage years still burned bright within me, undimmed by time or distance. It had never truly gone away; it had merely been waiting, patient, and persistent. I daydreamed, envisioning a life where Jazz worked at Guardian Hall, perhaps even alongside me or at the shelter full-time.

But I had to shake those dangerous thoughts from my head. It was Jazz's life, and he needed to be the master of his destiny, not tethered to my silent hopes and unspoken dreams.

Marcus’s sharp eyes caught the tail end of my wistful expression. “What’s with that look on your face? All sappy and stupid,” he teased, but there was a keen edge of insight behind his light words.

Caught off guard, I tried to deflect with humor. “Just thinking about kittens left at the shelter and their chances,” I replied, attempting to steer the conversation away from more personal revelations.

“Kittens? Well, shit. Are they doing okay?”

I grinned, thinking of Jazz holding them. “They will be.” I sat at the desk and shuffled some papers, but Marcus wasn't easily put off. He leaned back in his chair, pen tapping against the desk, and gave me a knowing look.

“Something is different about you, and I know it's more than just the kittens.”

“There's nothing,” I lied.

Marcus raised a single eyebrow, and he didn't have to call me on my shit because that was enough. We'd worked together for over fifteen years, and he knew me.

He knew me.

I sighed, realizing there was no hiding the truth, at least not from Marcus. Glancing behind me at the open door, I lowered my tone. “Yeah, it's more,” I admitted, the weight of my feelings making my voice a little heavier. “It's Jazz. I… have all these feelings that never really went away. They just… evolved. All that time lost when I could have…” I scrubbed at my eyes. “I know what you're going to say, that I shouldn't?—”

“About time,” Marcus interrupted.” Then his expression turned thoughtful. “And finally admitting this isn't a bad thing, Alex. But remember…”

“I know. Jazz is healing, and I'm the owner here, and he has to navigate his own path.”

“That. So, make sure you're not building castles in the air, my friend,” Marcus added, a slight smile softening his words.

I nodded, grateful for his advice and concern. “No castles in the air,” I echoed, feeling a mix of resolve and anticipation. Whatever the future held, I knew it was essential to stay grounded in reality, even as I hoped, perhaps against my better judgment, for a chance to explore the depth of connection Jazz and I seemed destined to revisit.

Like how badly I wanted to kiss him again.

“We have other things to worry about,” Marcus interjected, pulling me back from my tangled thoughts about Jazz.

“Go on,” I said, steeling myself for bad news—stress, concerns over funding, or operational hurdles that were too common in our line of work.

“It's Tyler—Corporal Tyler Mason,” Marcus began, his brows knitting together in concern. “He didn't say a word to anyone yesterday, and straight after breakfast, he returned to his room. There's something off about him that…” His voice trailed off as he searched for the right words, his frown deepening.

“Is this a welfare issue? You think we should intervene?” I asked, already dreading the answer. A welfare check like this meant we could enter someone's room under our duty of care—something we'd only had to resort to a handful of times. It meant we were more than only concerned someone had reached a breaking point and might not come out of it alone.

Marcus sighed, the weight of his role as director apparent in his exhausted demeanor. “Yes, no, I don't know,” he admitted, passing me the intake form. I flicked through the papers. Although I was already familiar with Tyler's case, I made it a point to know everyone and everything at Guardian Hall. I scanned the latest entries for any details I might have missed. The last entry before Marcus’s concerns was in my handwriting, stating Tyler had attended group therapy a few days ago, but had remained his usual reserved self. I hadn't noticed anything too out of the ordinary—if silence and anxiety and sadness could be considered ordinary.

“And your medical opinion?” I knew he couldn’t be specific, but the fear in his eyes spoke volumes, worse when he shook his head.

“I tried,” Marcus replied, his voice tinged with frustration. “He wouldn't let me in, so I talked through the door. He says he’s okay. That's all he said. He was okay.” Marcus mimicked the flatness of Tyler’s tone. “And I just got this feeling…”

His voice trailed off, but the implication hung in the air. Marcus’s instincts were sharp, honed by years of dealing with similar cases, and our gut feelings had seldom led us astray. There wasn't enough on paper for me to justify using the master key on Tyler’s door without further cause, but the unease in Marcus’s voice was hard to ignore.

“Maybe I should try talking to him,” I suggested, already standing. “A fresh face, different approach.”

Marcus’s expression was grateful and worried at the same time. “Keep me posted. If he still won’t open up, we might have to consider more direct intervention.”

“Understood,” I affirmed, feeling the responsibility settle on my shoulders. As I headed toward Tyler's room, my mind raced with possible strategies to reach him, to pierce the isolation he had cocooned himself in. It was delicate, balancing respect for an individual’s privacy with the imperative to ensure their safety. Each step felt heavy, each breath filled with the cold air of apprehension, but I was determined to do whatever I could to help. Tyler, like every individual under our care, wasn't just a case file to me; he was a person, potentially standing at a precipice. And if I could offer a hand to hold, to pull him back from the edge, then that was what I intended to do.

Only his door was wide open, and immediately, alarm bells rang in my head. As I stepped over the threshold, I paused, taking in the scene before me.

The room was neat, and everything was in precise order. Tyler's bed was made with hospital corners on his sheets, and the blanket was pulled tight enough that it looked like you could bounce a coin off it. There wasn't a single item out of place. On top of it, personal items—probably all he had from his previous life—were arranged in meticulous rows: a photo in a simple frame, a closed book with a bookmark peeking out, and a digital clock displaying the time in bright, unblinking numbers.

But three envelopes, lined up with almost ceremonial precision, were on the bed. One was addressed to Mom and Dad , another to Jessica , and the third to Guardian Hall .

A cold shiver ran down my spine as I processed the implications. Where was Tyler, if not in his room?

Heart pounding, I reached for the envelope addressed to Guardian Hall, hesitating only momentarily before tearing it open. Inside was a short note, the handwriting shaky: I'm sorry. Thank you for trying. The simplicity of the words belied the depth of despair they hinted at, and a wave of shock crashed over me. Had he left? Planned to leave? Was he thinking of…?

I spun on my heel and dashed out of the room, my mind racing with possibilities, all dark. I nearly collided with Marcus in the hallway, who took one look at my face and didn’t even need to ask what was wrong.

“He's left a note,” I managed to say, thrusting the envelope into his hands. “I think he might be planning to leave, but?—”

“There's no sign on security of him leaving the building. He’s here somewhere,” Marcus interjected quickly, his voice tense as he scanned the note. Mutual realization dawned. We had to find him, and fast.

We split up, Marcus heading toward the back of the building while I took the front, each step fueled by urgency. My mind replayed every interaction with Tyler, searching for missed signs or words that could have hinted at his plans. The facility wasn't large, but it felt like a labyrinth as I checked every possible hiding spot.

“Check the roof!” Marcus’s voice crackled over the walkie-talkie, and I changed direction, taking the stairs two at a time up to the rooftop access. The door, which had long been locked and closed off, was hanging from its hinges.

When I stepped onto the roof, the cold hit me like a physical blow, but the sight of Tyler standing dangerously close to the edge made me stop in my tracks. “Tyler!” I shouted, my voice steady despite the pounding of my heart.

He didn't turn. “Just stay there, Alex,” his quiet voice carried in the silence. “Let me think.”

“Okay.”

Tyler was bundled in a heavy coat—would someone wanting to end their life wear something designed to keep out the cold?

“It wouldn't be fair to do this,” Tyler said at last, his voice low and emotionless. “It's not far enough…” He peered over the edge. “And Jesus, what if one of the others sees me fall, and they're triggered?” He groaned. “I'm fucking this up.”

A particularly harsh gust of wind shoved at us, and he wobbled. My heart stopped.

“I'm not here to stop you,” I lied, taking slow, measured steps toward him, “I just want to talk. You left us a note, and we're worried.”

Despair seemed to envelop him like a shroud. We were literally and figuratively on the precipice, and every word and movement counted.

“Maybe I should have done something quieter. A pill for every person I hurt?” He huffed a noise of despair and pressed gloved hands to his temples. “Would that be enough to stop this?”

I moved closer… a step at a time.

“I can help,” I murmured, just loud enough for him to hear.

Tyler turned to face me, sure and steady, without stumbling. His bright blue eyes were bloodshot, tears streaming down his face, tracing lines over his scars, his breathing harsh and ragged.

“You can't take away what I did,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

I stopped a few feet away from him, respecting his space while keeping close enough to react if needed. “I know I can't, Tyler,” I responded, my heart heavy with the pain in his words.

He shook his head, his gaze drifting back toward the skyline, seemingly lost in his own turmoil. “I can’t forget their faces. They’re with me all the time.”

His raw confession hung between us. I took a deep breath, searching for the right words. “I can’t pretend to understand what you’ve been through, Tyler. But this—this pain and guilt you’re carrying—it’s a part of you, but it’s not all of you. You’re here with us because you want to find a way to live. And we’re here to help you with that, not judge you or erase your past.”

Tyler’s eyes met mine again, the torment clear. “It would be easier if I just stopped,” he whispered with a desperate edge.

“No,” I said, taking a step closer, my voice soft but insistent. “There’s still hope, Tyler. There's still life to be lived. Your mom and dad would be heartbroken, and Jessica…” I assumed this was someone important, a sister, or a girlfriend maybe. I hope I was playing this right.

He stiffened then. “My little sister can't even look at me.” His shoulders slumped, the fight seeming to go out of him, his voice breaking.

“Maybe she doesn't know what to say?—”

“She doesn't! And I don't know what to say to her…”

I paused for a moment. “You’re not alone,” I reassured him, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder. I felt him tense under my touch before relaxing. I couldn't grab him. He was taller than me, weighed more, and was military-trained, but he was just a kid, and I would try if I had to. “Let’s go back inside. We can sit down, talk more, and get you the support you need.”

Tyler didn’t move for a long time, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Then, he nodded, not looking back at me as he spoke. “I'm sorry.”

I tensed. Was he saying sorry to me? Or was it to the ghosts of the people on his conscience, or maybe his family?

Then, he collapsed into my hold, and with relief flooding me, with so much pain in my heart for him, I guided him back to the door. We went inside, where Marcus waited with his medical kit, two steaming hot drinks, and my coat.

“You can't take away what I did,” Tyler blurted at Marcus.

“But we can try to help you live with what you saw,” Marcus whispered.

I released my hold of Tyler, and he immediately leaned against Marcus, who passed me the coffee cups and his bag. He dropped the coat and hugged Tyler close, and we exchanged glances. I got this , Marcus was telegraphing, and from how Tyler gripped hard, it looked like he did.

So, I forced the door shut, shoved a chair under it, and left them hugging. On my way down, I called the security company who said they’d be with us in ten. We needed an alarm on the door, stat.

Jazz was coming in the front door when I reached the final step. His jacket pockets were bulging suspiciously, and one furry face peeked over the top of one of them. He held up both hands. “Before you say anything?—”

Consumed with relief that he was still here; I kissed him hard. “Please fight, please don't ever leave.”

“Alex?”

I stumbled back in horror, staring at his confused and then, concerned expression. Before I could second-guess what he was thinking or why I'd kissed him where anyone could see, I went into my office, shut the door, and hoped to hell I hadn't messed up everything.