Page 56 of Ghosts Don't Cry

“The margins are clean.” I wrap my arms around my knees, trying to make myself smaller. “No one else’s thoughts to argue with. Just space for yours.”

He opens it like he’s handling something sacred. His fingers stroke over the blank spaces between paragraphs, following words I know he’s already memorized from the library copy. The light is just enough to see his throat working, and to catch the way his eyes move over the pages.

“You should go.” His voice is soft, lacking any of the usual defensiveness. “Your family?—”

“They think I’m at Cassidy’s.” I pull out my own book—Mary Shelley’s ‘Frankenstein.’ “I can stay … if you want? We don’t have to talk.”

He doesn’t answer me, but he sets down the library book and puts the new one in its place, open on his knees, his fingers stroking over the pages. They whisper as he turns them, each sound echoing in the empty space between us.

I open my book. Instead of reading it, I watch him from the corner of my eye, waiting for the moment when he finally reaches for the food. It takes longer than I like. Almost fifteen minutes of silent reading before his arm stretches out, painfully slowly, and his fingers curl around the flask of soup.

He drinks it in quick, quiet sips, alternating with bites of turkey. He doesn’t say a word or make eye contact with me the entire time. His guard never drops completely, but the tension in his shoulders seems to ease a little. And when he finally picks up his pen and starts writing, my heart skips a beat, and I drop my eyes to the open page in front of me.

Watching him spill words onto the page feels too intimate, so I sit here quietly staring at my book, and tell myself that being here is proof that someone knows he exists.

Chapter Twenty-One

RONAN

I’ve been pacingthe house since Lily left, trying to outrun the memory of her pressed against the wall, the taste of her lips, and her curves flush against mine.

It’s been three hours. Kitchen to living room to hallway and back. My boots are wearing a path in the dust I haven’t cleaned yet. Every time I pass the front door, my hand goes to the lock to check …alwayschecking.

Old habits die hard.

I try the windows next. They’re all secured … which I already knew. I checked them twice already, but my fingers test the latches anyway. The house is solid around me, yet it doesn’t feel safe.Nothingfeels safe with her words echoing around my head.

You’re just scared. Still so fucking scared of letting anyone?—

I’d cut her off with a kiss. Silenced her with my mouth because hearing the truth out loud was worse than any lie I could tell myself.

My reflection catches my eye in the darkened window. Tattooed. Broad-shouldered. Nothing like the boy who used to sleep rough … aside from the haunted look on my face. I pressmy forehead against the cool glass and close my eyes so I can’t see it.

Her pulse had been rabbit-fast under my palm. Her heartbeat hammering against mine when I’d pinned her to the wall. For one perfect second, she’d looked at me like I was still worth saving.

That’s the part that scares me most.

I shake my head and push away, stalking through to the kitchen. The electrical supplies sit where I left them yesterday, meticulously organized because control is all I have. The wires are sorted by gauge, junction boxes stacked by size, tools laid out in rows. Everything in its place …. Except the chaos in my head.

Around three, I give up telling myself I should go to bed. The basement stairs creak as I carry down the first load of supplies. The old panel leers at me from the wall, a rat’s nest of ancient wiring, just waiting to burn this place down.

I pop the panel cover. Whoever did this work didn’t care about what came after. They just wanted to get it done and move on, leaving the consequences for someone else to handle.

My fingers find the wire strippers, and muscle memory takes over. Prison taught me patience. Construction sites taught me precision. Both taught me that if you focus hard enough on the work in front of you, you don’t have to think about anything else.

Cut. Strip. Twist. Connect.

The rhythm is soothing. Each wire pulled free is one less fire hazard, and one less thing waiting to explode. If only I could strip out the damaged parts of myself as easily, and replace what’s broken with something that works.

But people don’t come with instruction manuals, and some damage goes too deep to ever reach.

By the time dawn creeps in through the basement windows, driving away the shadows, I’ve made decent progress. Half of thewiring has been stripped out. I’ve got new circuits mapped and ready.

But I can still feel the way her fingers tangled in my hair. I can still taste her on my tongue. And I can still see her face when I told her to get out.

“Kind of early to be making this much noise.”

I spin toward the voice. Tom is standing at the top of the stairs, two mugs of coffee in his hands.