Page 5 of Boomer

Boomer didn’t look back. Just curled tighter. Breakneck sat down on the edge of the bed, jaw clenched. “You can try to throw me out,” he muttered. “Good luck with that.”

He didn’t care if Boomer never said a word. Didn’t care if he sat there all damn night in silence. What mattered was that someone stayed. He knew what it felt like to break in the dark and have no one show up.

Boomer lay curled in a knot of agony, shoulders shaking with breath he couldn’t seem to catch. He’d gone quiet again, but the silence didn’t feel peaceful. It felt scorched.

He sat there, hands on his knees, and watched a man break from the inside, and he felt it.

That gut-punch ache of helplessness. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. God, hecared.

Boomer looked like he was trapped in some private hell, tortured by ghosts that clawed at him from the inside, and Breakneck’s stomach twisted at the sight of it.

He still didn’t know what to say. What words could possibly reach a place that deep, that dark? He’d never been good at comfort. Only showing up. Only protection.

But something fromMeditationsrose in his chest, unbidden.Be tolerant with others and strict with yourself.He clenched his jaw. This was what that meant. He wanted to tell Boomer it was okay to hurt. That pain didn’t make him weak. That he didn’t need to pretend with him.

But the words got stuck, like they always did. Too raw. Too big.

So instead, he just waited. A shadow at his brother’s side.

It might be true that he couldn’t understand this kind of pain. But he could damn well refuse to walk away from it.

Boomer surfacedto pressure on his shoulder. A firm grip, shaking him.

“Wake up.” The voice was low. Steady. Not harsh, butcommanding.

He blinked against the morning light slicing in through half-closed blinds. Disorientation hit first. Then the headache. Then the heavy weight of regret coiled in his gut.

He squinted up into the face above him.Breakneck.What the hell was the kid doing in his room? Images blurred across his mind, dim lights, tittie bar, a fist flying.Had he fucking punched him?God. He barely remembered. Shame twisted low and hot.

“I said move. We’re being spun up.”

The words filtered through his skull like gravel. Mission. Movement. Orders.

“Shower. Dress. I made you something to eat.” Breakneck’s impatience bled through his tone. “Hurry or we’ll be late. You know how Ice gets.”

Then the pressure was gone, the kid already moving out, efficient as a damn ghost.

Boomer sat up, groggy, somewhere between hungover and still drunk, his stomach roiled. He dragged himself to the bathroom, hit the floor in front of the toilet, and lost what little was left.

Then he showered, fast. Dressed even faster, hands shaking just a little as he pulled on his shirt and zipped up his pants.

He found the toast waiting on the counter. Peanut butter. No bullshit. Simple. Fortifying. So thoughtful. Boomer stared at it for half a second longer than he meant to.

“You’ll make someone a fine wife,” he muttered.

Breakneck didn’t even look up from digging for his keys in his pocket. Just lifted his hand and gave him the finger, casual, fluid, and entirely unbothered.

Boomer snorted and bit into the toast.

No lecture. No judgment.

Just the kid watching his six in the quietest, most stubborn way possible.

Boomer ate as he walked. Breakneck still didn’t say a word about the night before. Didn’t make a show of helping. Just handed him two bottles of water and held the door open.

“If your bladder can’t handle all that water on the ride in, old man, use one.Carefully.” Breakneck’s voice was flat, bone-dry. “If you’re a big man, you’ll leak and piss on my carpets. I won’t be forgiving.” He paused just long enough to turn the knife. “If you’re not…you might get it caught inside. I personally don’t have that problem.”

Boomer lifted a middle finger as he passed.