Page 111 of From the Wreckage

I told myself I run these trails to purge her ghost. But here I am, hiding while she breaks in plain sight.

Her shoulders quake. She buries her face in the blanket like she can vanish inside it.

My heart slams so hard it echoes in my ears. I peek once more, hungry, desperate—then freeze. She looks… shattered. Not just sad. Destroyed.

My legs twitch, ready to close the distance. To kneel in front of her, gather her against me, breathe her in like oxygen. My arms ache to feel her. For her silky hair brushing my cheek, her scent flooding my lungs as I breathe in her floral shampoo.

God, I’d give anything—anything—to be the one holding her together.

But I don’t move.

I can’t.

The lake keeps us apart. The tree pins me back. My silence steals the moment.

You’re not good enough for her, remember?

The thought slices me open. Still, I don’t move. I stay rooted in place, every muscle screaming while she drowns a few yards away.

The regret twists like a blade inside me.

I didn’t just lose her.

I let her go.

And watching her like this—alone and broken—I know I’ll never forgive myself for it.

The driveinto town feels mechanical. Milk, bread, coffee, eggs, meat, veggies—I tick them off like penance as I put them in the cart.

Once I’ve checked out and left the store, I toss the bags in the truck bed and sit there too long, staring at the Timberline’s flickering neon sign. My stomach growls, but the second I pull in, memories blindside me.

Her laughter as she darted past, her ass brushing against my dick when she leaned for darts. The way her foot slid up my leg under the table, daring me to react while her father sat beside her.

A guttural groan rips out of me. I scrub my hands over my face, as if the memories will wash away. But even now, missing her guts me so hard it leaves me half-hard.

Pathetic. I’m so damn pathetic.

I shove the door open and head inside before I can change my mind.

The Timberline smells the same—like grease, beer, and pine cleaner. My boots echo across scuffed wood as I cut toward the register. I lift my head, and then freeze.

Grayson.

He’s standing at the counter, wings in hand, gaze locking on me as sharp as a blade.

My chest seizes.Of all the people?—

I pivot to leave.

“Don’t.”

One word, steady, commanding.

I go rigid, slowly turning around.

Grayson studies me like I’m laid bare, every scar and sin under a microscope. Anger burns there, but beneath it, I see something else. Something that looks like regret.

“I need to talk to you.” He nods at the register. “You getting wings?”