Page 27 of Make Them Bleed (Pretty Deadly Things #1)

Arrow

By the time I lock the Riverside door behind me, the river has turned into a sheet of black glass and the wind coming off it has that metallic bite that sneaks under your hoodie and rearranges your introspection.

We have a plan scrawled in dry-erase and digital breadcrumbs in five separate encrypted vaults.

We also have a hole where trust used to sit.

Both truths ride home with me like passengers I didn’t invite.

Our apartment is dark except for a low lamp in the living room and the soft glow of a laptop.

Gage is on the couch with his boots off and two Pelican cases open like surgical trays.

He’s building some Franken-rig for Render.

It’s a camera body, a pancake lens, a directional mic the size of a pencil.

His hands move with careful, monkish focus.

He looks up as I shut the door with my foot.

“Hey, bat,” I say, dropping my backpack by the coat rack.

Gage’s mouth twitches. “Don’t call me bat. Bats have better PR.”

“How long you been home?”

He checks his watch without really looking at it. “Hour. Ozzy’s at Knight’s, pretending tacos are a religion. I figured you’d need a pair of eyes not attached to a feelings bomb.”

“Accurate.”

He watches me for a beat, sees the way my shoulders are sitting an inch higher than usual, and folds the laptop shut. “You sure about this?” he asks, and I know he means all of it: the plan, the soft-bait at Atlas, the hard edges, the Juno of it all.

“No,” I say, socking my hands into my hoodie pocket. “But we’re out of sure, and the clock’s been heckling us.”

He nods once, absorbing that like data. “I’ll sit the marina cams tonight. If the plate shows again, I want it before it hits the causeway.”

“Thanks.”

He doesn’t fill silence unless it needs filling. Tonight it does. He tips his head toward me. “How’s the… other thing?”

“You mean the part where the woman I love has one hand on my heart and the other on a flamethrower?”

“That one.”

I drop into the armchair across from him and scrub my palms over my face. “She found out about the spyware.”

Gage’s wince is quiet but comprehensive. “Told you not to cross that line.”

“I know.” The shame burns, steady and clean. “I was scared. I did the wrong smart thing.”

He considers. “People think the smart thing is the thing with the most code in it.”

“It usually is for me.”

“And how’d it go?”

“She’s hurt.” The word is a small, sharp stone in my mouth. “She shut things off. She asked for space. I’m trying to give it without… abandoning the perimeter.”

Gage taps the mic on the coffee table, a tiny sound. “Don’t defend it. Don’t justify. Be where she tells you, when she tells you. Keep your hands off her steering wheel.”

“That last part’s your kink, not mine,” I mutter, and he actually huffs a laugh.

“Arrow.” He leans forward, forearms on his knees, and looks at me the way he looks at a shot he wants. “Keep being there. If she asks for water, you bring water. If she asks for silence, you shut your mouth. If she asks for a wall, you become concrete. But let her decide the shape.”

I sit with that. It’s good advice, mostly because it tells me to do less and I am constitutionally bad at less. The floor creaks over by the bookcase—old building bones complaining about the cold. I let the sound pass through me and breathe into the hollow place behind my ribs.

“Render texted on my walk,” I say. “The burner ping was under the bridge by the rowing sheds. Nico’s LLC is Nicolas Armand. He’ll get us valet logs.”

Gage nods, installs a battery, checks a level. “I’ll pre-build a composite from your stills. If he breathes on a municipal lens, we’ll catch the fog.”

My phone buzzes face-down on the end table. I don’t need to see the name to know it’s her; the vibration goes a different frequency when it’s Juno. A Spidey-sense I didn’t consent to.

I thumb it open.

Juno: Home. Doors locked. I did not turn the Ring back on. Thought you should know so you don’t do the anxious hover.

The knot behind my sternum loosens a notch.

Thank you for telling me. No hover. I’m on the couch trying to teach Gage manners.

Across from me, Gage raises one eyebrow without looking away from his rig.

Juno: Tell him I appreciate his bat energy.

Juno: Also tell him I know he stiff-arms sentiments and that’s fine because I have enough for both of us.

I read that out loud. Gage goes a little pink around the ears. “Tell her to hydrate,” he mutters, which in Gage means tell her I care .

Hydrate. Orders from the bat.

Juno: Wow, powerful. Drinking water now.

Juno: …fine, half a glass. Don’t narc me out.

I grin at the screen like an idiot. Gage sees and sets his rig down, and stands. “I’m going to go scrub the plate frames in my cave,” he says, gesturing to his room-slash-lab like a troll under a bridge. He pauses at the hall. “Hey, Arrow?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not wrong to want to keep her breathing.” He scratches his jaw. “Just don’t do it by taking her lungs.”

That hits hard. “Got it, thanks.”

He disappears down the hall. The apartment gets very quiet, the kind of quiet that feels like a held breath rather than an absence. I stretch out on the couch, one knee up, phone balanced on my thigh.

What are you listening to?

Juno: Do not laugh.

Juno: Hold The Peppers—the live album. Yelling along quietly so my neighbors don’t file a complaint.

My heart does an undignified thing. Hold The Peppers was our shared rope-ladder in high school. We traded bootleg recordings on burned CDs and argued about whether the drummer’s fill in “Statue of Liberty Tax Fraud” was intentional (it was, Gage later proved it in a waveform).

Track 7?

Juno: Obviously. The clap-clap before the bridge still makes me think I’m invincible.

You are. But also maybe don’t try parkour off your couch.

Juno: Parkour is a state of mind.

Juno: What about you? Listening to anything besides router fans and your conscience?

I chuckle, thumb hovering.

I queued the demo where they mess up the second verse and keep going.

I love it when they don’t cut the mistakes.

A pause. Then:

Juno: Of course you do. That’s very… you.

Juno: Do you remember the basement show senior year? You snuck me in because my mother thought I had the flu.

You did have the flu. You almost passed out in the bathroom and I had to keep splashing water on your face from that sink with zero water pressure.

Juno: And you missed the encore because of me.

And?

Juno: You still bring it up when you want me to feel guilty and give you the last fry.

Lies and slander.

Three dots. Stop. Start. Stop.

Juno: I don’t like being mad at you. It feels… itchy. Like I’m wearing a sweater made of bees.

I stare at that for a very long second, then type and delete three versions of I deserve the bees .

I’m not asking you to stop being mad. I’m learning to sit next to it.

Bees like me. I’m basically a flower in flannel.

Juno: Wow. The image.

Juno: You know what else I remember about that show? Your hand on my back in the crowd. You did it so I wouldn’t get shoved. You didn’t make it weird. You just… anchored me.

I remember your hair smelling like oranges and my brain forgetting English when you laughed. Also I remember you stealing the setlist. It’s still taped under your bed, right?

Juno: Maybe it is, maybe you’ll never find out because I’ve changed the locks.

The warmth in my chest spills lower, heavier. I should keep this light. I should ask about breakfast plans and dodge the undertow. But her next message undercuts my caution.

Juno: Arrow?

Yeah.

Juno: The anchor thing… you still do it. Even when I don’t want to admit it.

Juno: Tonight at the loft when I asked you to kiss me like you might not get to tomorrow… the way you stopped when I said stop? That was… good.

Juno: I’m still mad. But. That was really good.

I sit up, elbows on knees, head in my hand. Gratitude spikes behind my eyes in a way that would embarrass Gage mercilessly.

Thank you for telling me. I’ll keep earning it.

Juno: It’s not a punch card.

Then no more metaphors. Just… I hear you.

A beat. Then:

Juno: What would you do if I were there right now?

The question lands like someone pulled the tablecloth and the plates stayed put. I swallow.

Context?

Juno: Couch. Low lamp. Hold The Peppers track 7 at an acceptable whisper. Me in your hoodie, which I stole, don’t fight me on this.

Juno: You’re allowed one paragraph. Be honest. Nothing you wouldn’t say in daylight.

I let my head fall back against the couch, my body hardening at the thought of her here. I stare at the ceiling crack that looks like a map of a country I’ll never visit, and let the truth line up.

I’d sit close but not on you. I’d put your feet in my lap because you always pretend you hate that and then fall asleep.

I’d ask if I could touch you. Then I’d learn the night’s map by touch—the line from your ear to your jaw, the place your pulse jumps when you’re trying to hide that you’re flustered.

I’d kiss you slow enough to make you roll your eyes at me and then faster when you tug my shirt and I remember we’re allowed to want the same thing.

A long pause. Then:

Juno: There are… moments when I want to stop being mad just to find out if your mouth is as good as your words.

Juno: Don’t let that go to your head.

Too late. It’s a balloon now. Fully inflated.

Juno: Ugh.

Juno: What would you not do?

Push. Assume. Touch without asking. Turn my phone over so you can’t see it.

I would not mistake being needed for being owed.

Her reply is so fast I can see her thumbs in it.

Juno: Good answer. Now, it’s your turn. Ask me one honest thing you’ve wanted all day and couldn’t.

There are a hundred. The stupid one wins.

What did you color after you got home the day you shut the Ring off?

Juno: Mandala page forty-three. The one about “balance.” I shaded in purple until my hand cramped.

Juno: It helped, a little. Then it didn’t. Then you texted and it did again. That’s annoying, by the way.

I’m honored to be your annoying.

I’m grinning when the next message hits and it short-circuits me from sternum to spine.

Juno: Arrow, I want to be kissed against the wall next time. Not because I’m forgiving you. Because I want to feel that… edge.

I have to stand, because sitting suddenly feels like a hazard. I pace to the window and stare out at the smear of city lights, composing a reply that doesn’t overpromise or underplay.

Copy. Wall-kissing requested. Boundaries file saved to desktop and tattooed on my bones.

Also, I’m going to think about you in my hoodie swallowing you whole until I forget how to form words.

She sends three eye-roll emojis, then:

Juno: What about tomorrow morning? Bagels and silence? Or bagels and a plan?

Both. I’ll be on your stoop at 8 with sesame, cinnamon-raisin, cream cheese that is definitely too fancy, and a draft op order called Operation Hold The Peppers.

Juno: That name is illegal.

Report me to the band.

Juno: I’d never betray Hold The Peppers.

Their lawyers are peppers. Peppercorn suits.

Juno: Stop. I’m smiling and I hate you for it.

I lean my forehead against the cool glass and let myself breathe. My hands still shake with the memory of the loft, and now they shake with the phantom of a wall and her mouth. I want. God, I want. But want is not a plan. I step back from the window and let the room resolve again into the couch.

Juno: Okay, I’m going to take a shower and pretend the steam is washing off other people’s fingerprints.

Juno: Goodnight, Arrow.

My chest pulls tight again, but in the good way.

Goodnight, Juno. Dream about something where I’m in it.

Three dots. Then:

Juno: That’s all of them.

I put the phone face-down on the coffee table and sit there for a minute, palms buzzing, heart stamping out a ridiculous rhythm. The hallway light clicks on, and Gage pads out in socks, carrying a drive.

“Plate’s a match to the Marina set,” he says, like we weren’t just having a quiet emotional earthquake in the other room. “Time stamp puts it at twenty minutes after your Unknown text.”

“Good,” I say, accepting the drive. “Bad. Both.”

He studies my face like he’s checking exposure. “You look less like a man being eaten alive by bees.”

“She told me how to be useful,” I say. “I can work with that.”

He nods, yawns in a way that makes me yawn because biology is code. “I’m crashing. Wake me if the rivers start speaking Latin.”

“Copy.”

He shuffles down the hall and shuts his door.

I clean up the table by muscle memory—cups, a stray cable tie, a sticky note that says DON’T GET ARRESTED (Render must have planted it like a guardian angel).

I set two alarms: one at 6:30 to finish the Huxley packet, one at 7:15 to secure bagels with cream cheese too fancy for our tax bracket.