Page 26

Dylan

M y old room felt like a sanctuary and a cage.

I sat on the edge of the four-poster bed, the hospital’s verdict still ringing in my ears: no brain bleed, just a stress-induced headache, normal for a guy who’d been through a hit-and-run and a memory-shattering flashback.

My ribs were healing faster than expected, and I couldn’t help but smirk—maybe I was more like my father than I thought, stubborn and tough, biology be damned.

My parents had come to the hospital, pulling strings to get me top-tier care, their presence a comforting constant. Now, they were downstairs, probably instructing the staff to have everything perfect in the morning. My healing wouldn’t go smoothly without fresh-cut flowers as a centerpiece.

Mom.

Steven stood by the window, like some over-protective guardian angel. He’d been like this since the accident—my driver, my friend, my self-appointed babysitter, hovering like a mother hen.

“Steven,” I said, leaning back against the headboard, “you’ve always had my back, but this? You’re acting like I’m one bad sneeze from keeling over. Dial it back.”

He turned, his jaw tight, his usual stoic calm fraying. “I’m not taking chances, Dylan. Not after...” He stopped, his eyes dropping to the floor, and I knew that look—regret, heavy and raw.

“Spit it out,” I said. “What’s eating you?”

Steven crossed his arms and let out a breath, like someone confessing a sin.

“It’s my fault you got hurt. I wasn’t driving that day.

You sent me to check on Mark and told me a wild story about twins and a psychologist’s experiment.

I thought it was... I don’t know, sci-fi nonsense, a joke.

I didn’t take it seriously, didn’t up security.

If I’d been there, that car wouldn’t have hit you.

” He rubbed a hand over his face, looking worn.

“You trusted me, Dylan, and I let you down. I should have listened, should’ve taken you seriously. That’s on me.”

The words hit harder than my headache had, his guilt mirroring my own—for Mark, for Jennifer, for all the ways I’d screwed up.

I flashed back to Thane’s visit, his voice steady as he laid out the truth: Charles Simmons, a fertility clinic doctor with a twisted past, had run an adoption agency, separating identical twins to prove environment trumped genetics.

Simmons’s father had labeled him the “wrong son” after his genius twin died young—his mom died by suicide the same week.

He’d spent his whole twisted life proving he was as valuable as his brother, separating twins like me and Mark just to settle a dead man’s score.

He’d tracked the twins, meddling in their lives, his journals bragging about his “legacy.”

I took a breath, clarifying it aloud. “Thane and Zachary, Jesse and Scott—they’re all victims like Mark and me.

Someone stole Simmons’s journals with our names and left threats, warning us to stop looking or they’d ‘clean up’ any mess we made.

Doesn’t sound like organized crime. Sounds like someone who was involved is still alive and desperate that no one uncovers their involvement.

But they’re sloppy, and that’s good news for us. Did you see anyone suspicious?”

Steven suddenly tensed, straightening abruptly. “The insurance adjuster who came to the hospital. That might have fucking been him.”

A chill ran down my spine, but I pushed it away, focusing on my friend’s distress. “Steven, you’ve saved my life more times than I can count. Checking on Mark might have saved his too. You don’t know if that stopped something more serious from happening. Let’s all move forward.”

He shook his head, unconvinced, and I saw the man beneath the tough exterior—loyal, burdened, carrying more than he let on. I spotted the stuffed elephant on the nightstand, its worn fur a quiet mystery. “Hey,” I said, picking it up, “what’s with this thing? Been meaning to ask.”

Steven’s expression softened, a rare crack in his armor.

“It’s from Mark’s parents. Used to be his.

There was a note with it, but we thought it would confuse you.

I’ll find it for you. They brought it to the hospital, stayed by your bed with Mark, Jesse, Scott, Thane, Zachary—all the twins you’re tied to.

They were there until Jennifer came, but were never far from you.

Mark was shaken up when you told him he was adopted.

I wasn’t sure about any of them in the beginning, but they seem pretty solid. ”

My chest tightened painfully. I’d torn their lives apart, dumped a truth they weren’t ready for, and yet they still showed up.

They’d sat by my bed, left Mark’s elephant—still cared.

What kind of person had I been to deserve their kindness?

I swallowed hard, forcing down a rush of shame.

“What am I supposed to do now?” I asked, my voice rough, anger bubbling up like an old enemy.

It was me against myself, the Dylan who lashed out in that fight with Jennifer, who cut out my parents, battling the man I wanted to be.

I took a slow breath, steadying myself. The old Dylan—angry, wounded—felt dangerously close, but I’d spent too long letting him control my choices. This time, I decided who I would be.

Steven sat on the chair across from me, his eyes steady. “I’m not the guy for advice, Dylan. My life’s a trail of burned bridges. But maybe—just throwing it out there—you could choose not to be a dick.”

I barked a laugh, the tension breaking like a snapped wire. “That’s your wisdom? ‘Don’t be a dick.’”

“Hey,” he said, grinning, “takes one to know one. But yeah, maybe you can choose who you are, not let the past call the shots.”

I leaned forward, ribbing him back, the camaraderie warm, real. “That’d mean you’re capable of the same thing, you know. What does a Steven who’s not a dick look like?”

He froze, his grin fading, and for a moment, I saw the weight he carried.

“I’ve got an ex-wife and a son who doesn’t want to know me,” he said, voice low.

“Came back from tours a mess, not their fault. They cut me out, and they were right—only healthy choice. If I could choose... I’d write them letters.

Say I was the broken one, not them, and I get why they moved on. ”

The honesty floored me, two men laying it bare, respecting each other enough to speak the truth. “Do it,” I said, my voice firm. “Write the letters.”

Steven snorted, but his eyes held a spark. “Where’s a guy even get a fucking stamp these days?”

I laughed, the sound easing the ache in my chest. “I’ve got faith in you,” I said, smirking. “You’re a trained Marine—you’ll win the battle against postage stamps.”

I stood, my ribs protesting but my heart clear.

“The me I want to be wouldn’t sleep here tonight,” I said, glancing at the elephant, its worn fur a reminder of Mark’s family, of the power of forgiveness and kindness.

“I’d be with Jennifer. If this was my second chance—hell, maybe my last—I wouldn’t waste it hiding from the woman who’s never left my heart. ”

Steven raised an eyebrow, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “Then what’s stopping you?”

“Nothing,” I said, the truth settling like a vow. “Right?”

“Right,” he said, and our futures—his letters, my love—felt like a destiny we could shape.

I crossed to the door, my hand on the knob.

“Where are you going?” Steven asked, though I suspected he knew.

“To Jennifer,” I said, and stepped out, my heart pulling me to the woman I chose and the man I wanted to be.