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His dad asks the same question his mama did.

He offers the same response.

He’s already home.

A day after he crashed into a telephone pole, Ricky was charged with arson and attempted manslaughter in the same hospital he put my boyfriend in.

In matching rooms just down the hall, Vic and Ethan were slapped with their own charges.

Only a few hours later, the Webers were found in the shitty mobile home they’d moved to a different part of my family’s land in a half-assed attempt at evasion and found themselves with a breaking and entering charge that wasn’t anything close to their first, an assault charge to match, and a shiny new arson charge too.

Their trials are sometime next month. I’ll have to testify, as will Finn. My lawyer spouted a hundred things that need to happen between now and then, none of which I really comprehended, but that’s okay. I understand the important parts.

The assholes who tried to ruin my life are locked up indefinitely, without bail and no one to pay it anyway. They didn’t get what they wanted, not even close.

And Finn is okay. Finn is tucked against my side, using me as a crutch as I help him up the stairs and into his bedroom for the first time in a long, long week.

Well, it’s his first time. Not mine. Something Finn clocks the second his head hits the pillow.

Rubbing his cheek against the silky fabric, he sniffs. “Have you been sleeping in here?”

I let the duffel bag he’s been living out of for the past few days hit the ground with a harder thump than necessary, scoffing. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“My pillow smells like you.”

“I think the pain is making you delusional. Let me get your—”

Impeding my escape attempt, Finn snags me by the wrist. “You were sleeping in here.”

I roll my lips together. “Lux hired a shitty glazier. There’s a draught in the attic.”

“Ah. Better let my parents know.”

I wrench my hand away. “I’ll get right on that.”

I start towards the door only to stop halfway. Turning on my heel, I stomp the half a foot back to Finn, stoop to kiss his forehead, roll my eyes at his smug expression before trying to leave again.

Third time lucky, I actually succeed.

Finn’s parents are right where I left them. Downstairs, lingering by the door, holding the bags they hurriedly packed when they got the worst call imaginable in the middle of the night and hauled ass out of Texas.

“My room is all the way up,” I tell them, pointing back up the staircase I just descended. “The sheets are clean and I emptied out a drawer in case you need it.”

I don’t mention the draught.

Mostly because there isn’t one.

“Thanks, Lottie.” Mr. Akello— Mukasa , he’s told me to call him more than once, but I swear every time I even think about using his first name, the ghost of my grandmother hisses in my ear, scolding me for my lack of manners—shoots me a smile.

Bestowing a pat upon my shoulder, he heads upstairs in search of the room he and his wife will be sharing for who knows how long.

Lux offered them a guest cabin, but I figured they’d want to be close to Finn so I told them to take my room. It’s not like I’ve been sleeping there the past week.

It’s not like I’ve been sleeping at all.

Finn was only half right in his accusation.

I find my way into his room at night, sure.

But I don’t sleep . Not even close. I lay awake.

Usually wrapped in a stolen hoodie, breathing in the lingering scent like it’s my own personal brand of Xanax.

Trying to stave off the nightmares I shouldn’t be having, I feel silly having, I feel selfish having because nothing happened to me.

As Mrs. Akello—Namara, fuck —follows her husband, I absently wonder if the nightmares will get better or worse now that Finn isn’t laid up in hospital anymore.

Now that I don’t have to listen to doctors and nurses and every flavor of medical professional in existence rave about how lucky he is, over and over and over again. How it could've been so much worse.

I don’t need to hear that. I know . I’ve been to a meeting every day this week because I can’t stop thinking about just that, because I am desperate to stop thinking about it and I happen to be extremely familiar with the most efficient way to shut your mind off.

“Stay busy,” Silas has grumbled at me more than once, and I’ve been taking that advice.

Really, really taking it. Staying really, really busy.

Like right now. A mere five seconds alone in the living room, five seconds of silence, of standing still and glowering at the dense sea of flowers covering the island counter that serve absolutely no purpose other than making my eyes itch and do not in any way aid my boyfriend’s recovery, and I spur into action.

I’ve already spent the entire morning cleaning the house—after spending the entire week erasing any evidence of the break-in—so I stride towards the kitchen.

In my desperate need to do something , I decide I should cook, nevermind the fact I can’t cook, so maybe it’s a miracle rather than a wrench thrown in my plans that when I open the fridge, I find it fully stocked with ready-cooked meals, neatly stacked in Tupperwares I swear are older than me.

Snagging the first thing I see, I chuck a lasagna in the oven to warm up.

And then I dig around in the freezer until I find garlic bread and heat that up too.

I grab cutlery and set it on the counter, fingers dancing across the freshly repaired marble.

I swear to God, I’m one millisecond away from doing something completely ridiculous like whipping up a batch of homemade lemonade when slow, laboured footsteps on the stairs interrupt my slightly manic dinner round-up.

“What the fuck?” I scowl at Finn as he shuffles into the living room. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”

“I’ve been in bed for days,” he retorts with a childish whine. “I hate beds.”

Rushing towards him, I catch him by the elbow and tug him towards the nearest sofa. “Your stitches—”

Finn kisses his teeth. “Can handle a few steps.”

Grunting as he carefully sits down, he slouches with a long exhale.

Head tipped against the back of the sofa, he watches me through hooded eyes—exhausted eyes, though fuck knows he won’t admit it—as I slide a pillow beneath his neck, another beneath his limply hanging arm, tug a blanket over his lap too.

The quirk of his mouth is lazy, satisfied. “I like this.”

Hunched over him the way I am, I assume he’s talking about the straight-shot view down my tank, but I still ask, “What?”

“You fussing over me. It’s very cute.”

“Shut up.”

“I should get shot more often.”

It’s not just me who hisses at him to quit this time—his mom does too, skipping down the last few stairs to gently slap her son upside the head. Tutting at him, she moves towards the kitchen right as the oven timer dings.

I straighten. “I got that.”

She waves me off, telling me to sit down as she rummages around in search of an oven mitt, a command that Finn repeats as he pulls me down beside him.

Sighing, I relent, sitting sideways so I can peer over the back of the sofa, watching Namara move around the kitchen while her son tries his best to yank me onto his lap.

When I resist, batting him away, he pouts and picks at the blanket covering his bottom half. “This is new.”

I hum, gnawing on my nails.

“Did you make it?”

Another hum.

“For me?” he croons, a teasing tilt to his tone.

Sliding him a scowl, I mumble a correction around my thumbnail.

Finn tilts his head to one side, tapping the ear nearest to me. “What was that?”

Asshole . “It’s for your mom,” I murmur only marginally louder, flushing before the admission even leaves my tongue.

The mirth brightening Finn’s features fades. His smile softens, warm against my forehead as he kisses it. “Sweetheart.”

My cheeks heat even more. I barely have a second to ponder how much I like that particular brand of praise before Finn is twisting towards the kitchen.

“Momma,” he calls over his shoulder, and I would slap a hand over his loose fucking lips if I wasn’t just a little bit terrified to even touch him. “Lottie made something for you.”

Brows high with intrigue, Namara carries two steaming bowls over to the coffee table. Fight or flight response heavily leaning towards the latter end of the scale, I jump up to get the other two waiting on the right, but Mukasa chooses the exact wrong time to thunder down the stairs.

“I’ve got it,” he hollers, and I sink back down, no choice but to watch as Finn hands over the stupid blanket.

To Namara’s credit, she ooh’s and aah’s appropriately, lithe fingers plucking at the soft wool. She lifts her gaze, flashing the soft smile she passed down to her son. “You really made this?”

Flushed and awkward, I shrug.

“It’s beautiful.”

I clear my throat. I think I say cool . I know I stand, I know my hands are sweating as I drag them down my thighs, I know I sound like a bumbling, rude idiot as I abruptly dismiss myself. “I just remembered, I gotta go check on Ru—”

I cut myself off.

Yeah, Lottie. They definitely want to hear about the horse that was part of the reason the gun-slinging inbreds who shot their son were hanging around in the first place. Nice one.

“On the horses,” I amend, slipping out of Finn’s reach before he can make a grab for me. “I’ll be quick.”

My boyfriend, the bastard , smirks knowingly. “Take your time.”

I squint at him, swallowing a curse that I’m sure he hears anyway, and head for the door. I’m just reaching for the handle when someone says my name.

I wonder just how deer-in-the-headlights I look as I half-turn to face Finn’s mom. “Yeah?”

“Thank you. I love it. You’re very talented.”

My spine straightens. Something lovely twirls in my gut, thumping behind my ribs. I puff my goddamn chest.

Parental praise.

What a fucking trip.

I lied; I’m not quick.