Page 179 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2

He’s right.I did know. Had always known on some level that Hank would die this way—protecting others, putting himself between danger and the people he loved. It was written into his DNA, this selfless courage that made him both magnificent and doomed.

But she’s still breathing.And so are you.

So now I need you to do something for me.

Carry her home.

Ally’s tearssoak through my T-shirt, her body trembling against mine. I read the next lines aloud, voice breaking on words that pierce straight through every defense I’ve built.

Hold her when she breaks,like I would’ve. Wipe her tears with those rough hands of yours. Make her feel safe again, even when the world’s burning down around you. She doesn’t need a hero—she needs you. Solid. Steady. There.

Ally’s breath catches,a sound between a laugh and a sob escaping her. “He knew you so well,” she whispers.

She criedthe night I left. Tried to hide it, but I saw. You did too. She bends, but she never breaks. Not really. She still believes in us—in you. So don’t make her go the rest of the way alone.

I rememberthe night he died. The way she cried, shoulders shaking, sobbing with endless tears.

You knowher better than most. That laughter like sunrise. The way she bites her lip when she’s trying to lie. She gave us both more than we deserved—fire and fury, softness and steel. She wasn’t mine. She wasn’t yours. She was ours. In a way that never fit inside clean lines.

My voice givesout completely on “ours.” Because he’s right. She was never just his or just mine. She belonged to both of us in a way that defied conventional relationships, that created something whole from three separate people.

Ally takesthe letter from my trembling hands, continues reading where I left off, her voice steady despite the tears streaming down her face.

So don’tyou dare carry guilt. Carry her.

Breathe her in. Love her fully, recklessly, tenderly. Love her loud. Love her soft. Love her like you do, in all the ways I won’t get to anymore.

Guard her.

Trace her scars like they’re battle maps. Let her sleep safely in your arms. Make her coffee just right. Leave the light on when she needs it. Keep her warm. Keep her laughing. Let her cry into your chest when she needs to fall apart. Then hold her tighter than the fear.

Her voice breaks on “fear,”the word dissolving into a sob that seems to come from somewhere deeper than her lungs. I pull her closer, one hand moving to rest on the small swell of her stomach, where Hank’s son grows stronger every day.

When she can’t continue,I take the letter back and read the final lines that Hank left for me. For us.

Tellher I didn’t leave—not really. I’m still here. In your blood. In her breath.

I loved her to the end.

You’re my brother. My best. My last. My always.

Now you lead.

Carry her home for me.

She’s yours now.

– Hank

The final wordshang in the air between us, Hank’s voice so clear I can almost hear him speaking them. The grief I’ve been carrying these past months shifts, transforming into something different. Not lighter, exactly, but more purposeful.

Grief with direction.

Ally’s hand covers mine where it rests on her stomach. “He knew,” she whispers. “Somehow, he knew about the baby.”

“No.” I shake my head, certain on this point. “He couldn’t have known. But he knew us. Knew what we’d need to hear exactly when we’d need to hear it.”

That was Hank—always three steps ahead, planning for contingencies none of us wanted to face.