Page 58

Three Months Later

Jude

T he house was quieter these days.

Not tense quiet.

Not watching-your-six quiet.

Just... peace.

The kind that lived in coffee cups left half full, bare feet on hardwood floors, and the low hum of a guitar playing in the next room.

Cyclone sat on the back porch, strumming something soft while our dog—yes, our dog, a rescue mutt named Bravo—dozed at his feet. He wore his favorite old jeans, the ones that should’ve been thrown out months ago, and a plain white T-shirt that clung in all the right ways.

I leaned in the doorway and just watched him for a minute.

God, I loved him.

Not because he saved me.

But because he never asked me to be anything other than me.

We’d built something here.

We’d planted flowers out back, put up shelves I never used, and even picked out a mailbox. A real one. Black metal, bolted into the post with both of our names painted across it in crooked white script.

Jude + Cyclone.

A life.

A home.

A future.

He looked up and caught me staring, that crooked grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“See something you like?”

I stepped outside and dropped into the chair beside him, tucking my legs up and stealing the beer from his hand.

“Yeah,” I said, sipping. “I see everything I want.”

He reached over and laced our fingers together, his thumb brushing over my ring finger—not rushing, not asking, just... waiting.

One day.

When we were ready.

And for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t afraid of tomorrow.

Because no matter what came next...

I wouldn’t face it alone.