Page 4 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

Cold bit through my jacket as I approached the funeral home. I was fucking freezing. Ohio winters had a way of finding the cracks in my armor, just like everything else in this godforsaken state.

I flexed my hands, veins standing out against skin that remained tanned despite months without proper shelter.

Four years of homelessness hadn't completely erased the physique I'd built during my nursing days.

I still did push-ups every morning, a hundred on good days, twenty on bad.

Sit-ups whenever I could. Running when the withdrawal symptoms weren't too bad.

My body was the last thing I controlled, even as I poisoned it daily with the very substances I once warned patients against.

I paused at the edge of the treeline, studying the building.

The modern structure stood in stark contrast to the old farmhouse next door, where the family lived.

The funeral home's sleek lines and large windows were dark now, the new construction a black silhouette against the night sky.

Perfect. No lights meant no one was inside.

The farmhouse next door was equally dark.

Everyone was gone or asleep. Just me and the dead.

My tongue ran over chapped lips, tasting copper where I'd bitten through during last night's withdrawal.

The scar that bisected my right eyebrow throbbed in the cold, a souvenir from a patient who'd coded on my table during the third COVID wave.

I'd fallen face-first into a crash cart when my legs gave out after the thirty-hour shift.

Twenty-seven patients lost in two days. The start of my unraveling.

I took a final drag of my cigarette, crushing it under my boot before moving across the empty parking lot. My knuckles were split and scabbed. Some from the bare-knuckle fights I'd been using to earn cash, some from punching the bridge support when I'd found Tyler's empty sleeping bag.

The service entrance lock was simple. I had it open in under thirty seconds, closing the door silently behind me. The interior smelled of chemicals and artificial flowers, death masked by pleasantries. My boots made no sound as I moved carefully across the polished concrete floors.

The preparation room would probably be in the basement. I found the staircase and descended slowly, one hand on the wall to guide me in the darkness. No need for a flashlight yet. My eyes had adjusted to the dark, and I didn't want to announce my presence if there was a security system.

At the bottom of the stairs, I reached for my phone, using its dim light to navigate the hallway. I pushed the double doors at the end of the hall open slowly, bracing for an alarm that never came.

A sound behind me made me turn.

He stood in the doorway, backlit by the hallway light. Slender build, dark curls falling perfectly despite the late hour. The same man from the window that morning, the one who'd called me.

Michael.

He didn't look scared. Didn't reach for a phone to call the police. Just stood there, watching me with those sharp brown eyes.

He was beautiful in an unsettling way. The kind of beautiful that made you wonder what the fuck someone that pretty was doing in a funeral home in the middle of nowhere, Ohio.

"You must be Hunter," he said.

My throat tightened. "I need to see Tyler."

"I know." He stepped into the room, and I caught a hint of cologne, something expensive and out of place in this temple of death and formaldehyde. "That's why I didn't call the police."

Light suddenly flooded the room as he flipped the switch, blinding me momentarily. I dropped into a fighter's stance instinctively, fists raised, weight balanced on the balls of my feet.

He frowned. "There was no need to break in. You could have called back."

"Would you have let me in?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation. "Without question."

He took a step forward. Our eyes locked, and for a moment, the room seemed to shrink around us. His pupils dilated slightly, and I wondered if he experienced the same unwelcome current of awareness as I did.

"What are you on?" he asked. "Heroin? Oxy? Fentanyl?"

"Does it fucking matter?" I muttered, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. The withdrawal crawled beneath my skin like fire ants, my muscles spasming with need.

I expected the usual response, lectures about choices, about strength, about how I just needed to want it enough. Instead, I found only understanding in those brown eyes. Quiet recognition that made something in my chest tighten.

"I'm sorry about Tyler," he said softly, and somehow it sounded like he meant both Tyler's death and my current state. Like he understood they were connected. "Would you like to see him now? We can discuss what happened after you've had some time with him."

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

He studied me a moment longer, eyes lingering on the scars visible on my knuckles, the tremor in my hands, the sweat beading at my temples despite the cold.

"This way. I've been taking care of him myself." He led me to a wall of refrigerated drawers, pulling one open. "I corrected the paperwork the county sent over. They had him listed as a Jane Doe."

Something tight in my chest loosened slightly at that. Tyler had fought so hard to be seen correctly.

The drawer slid out smoothly. He carefully folded back the sheet covering Tyler, revealing his face. He looked peaceful, skin waxy and pale. Someone had taken care to arrange his hair neatly, the rest of his body remaining respectfully covered.

Someone. This man. Michael. He'd done this. Treated Tyler with dignity the county hadn't bothered with.

"I'll give you a moment," he said quietly, stepping back.

But not far. Just to the other side of the room, where he pretended to busy himself with paperwork. Close enough if I needed him. Far enough to give me space.

The consideration in that simple act, knowing when to stay and when to go, made my throat tighten for reasons beyond grief.

A wave of sorrow slammed into me at the sight of Tyler's face, and my knees buckled. I caught myself on the edge of the drawer, an inhuman sound tearing from my throat.

Footsteps. Quick but not rushed. Then a hand on my shoulder, steady, warm through my jacket.

"I've got you," Michael said.

I'd spent four years making sure no one touched me unless I paid them. Four years of avoiding human connection beyond transactions. And here was this stranger, this beautiful stranger who should've called the cops, holding me together while I shattered.

It should have been wrong. Instead, it was the first right thing in years.

I stared at Tyler's face. This was the same face that had lit up when I'd first called him by his chosen name. The same face that had shown such determination when he talked about his future. Now it was forever still.

"Fuck, kid," I whispered, voice breaking. "You weren't supposed to go before me."

Tyler's face blurred. Jordan, twenty-six, oxygen dropping. No ventilators left. iPad screen. Mother crying. "Please don't let my baby die alone." My face shield fogging. Sweat pooling. Next patient. Next. Next.

I shook my head sharply. Tyler. This was Tyler. I wasn't in the ER anymore. Hadn't been there in a long time.

"I need some air," I managed to say, voice raw. "Just... need a minute."

Michael retracted his hand. "Take your time. I'll be here when you’re ready.”

I stumbled toward the stairs, needing distance from Tyler, from grief, from this man who looked at me like I was worth waiting for. My hands shook worse now, withdrawal and emotion and something else I couldn't name.

At the doorway, I paused. Looked back.

Misha stood beside Tyler's body, one hand resting gently on the drawer edge. The light caught his profile—sharp cheekbones, elegant neck—the kind of beauty that belonged in museums, not morgues.

"Thank you," I forced out. "For taking care of him."

"I'll keep taking care of him," Michael said, meeting my eyes across the distance. "Until someone claims him properly. Until he gets the justice he deserves."

Justice. The word hung between us like a promise. Like an invitation.

I nodded once and fled before I did something stupid. Like stay. Like ask this stranger to save me the way he'd tried to save Tyler.

Like believe someone that beautiful could look at someone like me and see anything worth saving.

I stumbled up the stairs and out the side door, the winter air hitting me like a slap. My lungs burned with each ragged breath. The grief was crushing. I couldn't do this. I couldn't face what had happened to Tyler, what I'd failed to prevent. Not without something to dull the edges.

The wind cut through my jacket as I oriented myself. The funeral home sat at the edge of Liar's Corner, where civilization gave way to miles of frozen fields and skeletal forests.

The camp was a thirty-minute walk on a good day. This wasn't a good day. My body screamed for relief from withdrawal, from grief, from the fucking cold. The shaking was worse now, a bone-deep tremor that had nothing to do with the temperature.

I staggered away from the funeral home toward the underpass about a block away. It wasn't much, but it would block the wind, providing some shelter from prying eyes.

The McDonald's across the street glowed with artificial warmth.

There were a few cars in the drive-thru, night shift workers inside paying no attention to the world beyond their windows.

The Piggly Wiggly next door was closed, its parking lot empty except for a single security light casting long shadows.

The underpass loomed ahead, concrete stained with years of exhaust and rural neglect. It smelled of damp earth and stale beer, but it was out of the wind. My sanctuary of last resort. I'd slept here more than once when the camp wasn't safe or I was too fucked up to make it back.

Traffic rumbled overhead, each passing car sending vibrations through the concrete.

The sound echoed strangely in the enclosed space, a reminder of Route 33 flowing like an artery between Athens and Columbus.

The highway was an endless stream of headlights, people with somewhere to be, bypassing the dying organs of rural Ohio.

Cigarette butts and broken glass crunched beneath my boots as I moved deeper into the shadows.

I collapsed against the wall, sliding down to sit on the filthy ground. The concrete leached what little warmth remained in my body. My hands shook violently as I pulled out my kit, fingers clumsy.

Tyler's face kept flashing behind my eyelids. That determination when he talked about top surgery. The way he'd grinned when I used his real name.

And behind Tyler, another face. Brown eyes that had looked at me without disgust. Elegant hands that had touched my shoulder without flinching. A voice that had said "I'll be here" like it was a promise instead of a threat.

I pulled out the small black case. The ritual was muscle memory now. Spoon, lighter, cotton, needle. I didn't let myself think about Tyler while I did it. Couldn't think about Michael either.

Both of them deserved better than this. Than me, destroying myself under a bridge while they waited for justice.

But my hands wouldn't stop shaking. Not just withdrawal this time. Grief made the tremors worse, made everything harder. And the memory of a hand on my shoulder, steadying me while the world fell apart.

"Fuck," I whispered. When had I started crying?

Finding a vein was nearly impossible between the cold and the shaking. I missed twice, blood welling up, and had to dig for it. Tyler would be so fucking disappointed. He'd looked up to me once. Thought I had my shit together because I used to be a nurse.

Used to be.

The needle finally slid in. I pulled back, watched the bloom of blood, and pushed the plunger. Always be gentle. Never rush. Respect the medicine. They'd taught me that for terminal patients.

Turned out I was terminal too.

Warmth bloomed through my chest. The shaking eased. The grief didn't disappear, just... softened at the edges. Became bearable. Brown eyes faded from my mind.

For now.

I closed my eyes, head tipped back against the grimy concrete. Cars passed overhead, the rumble vibrating through the wall into my bones.

Tyler was dead, and I was high, and nothing had changed.

The McDonald's lights flickered through my half-closed eyelids. I needed to move. Find somewhere safer to crash. The camp was miles away, but maybe I could make it to the abandoned storage units closer to the river. Jimmy would let me crash at his unit if I were desperate enough.

I repacked my kit. Organization was survival. The small sharps container held my used needle, the cotton saved for later if needed. Everything tucked away neatly, a ritual as important as the drug itself.

When I finally stood, my legs steadied, but the world had taken on a slightly dreamy quality that meant I wasn't going anywhere important tonight.

The Laskin Funeral Home could wait. Tyler wasn't going anywhere. And Michael wouldn't judge me for taking time. He'd said he'd be there. Said he'd wait.

I'd seen Tyler. I knew what had happened to him. That knowledge sat like poison in my veins, demanding action I wasn't capable of tonight.

But tomorrow. Tomorrow I'd go back. Figure out what happened and who was responsible.

And maybe, just maybe, figure out why a beautiful stranger's compassion made him more dangerous than any drug I'd ever taken.