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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN — The Quiet After
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2026-01-08 12:00:11The backyard is still warm when the sun finally gives up. It clings to the concrete around the pool, to the metal of the patio chairs, to the air itself, like the day is reluctant to leave us alone with the night. Laughter has a way of doing that. It presses itself into corners. It lingers in the spaces between people, making those spaces feel less like distance and more like something you could cross without bleeding.
Inside, the house is loud in a new way. Not danger, loud. Not the brittle, listening kind of loud Dawson’s place has been since he came home, where every sound is interrogated, every creak a suspect.This is human loud. Boots kicked off near the entryway. A cooler thumping onto the kitchen tile. Jace narrating his own existence at a volume that suggests he thinks silence is a personal insult. Miles washing dishes like he’s trying to atone for every sin he’s ever committed. Kellan leaning in doorframes, effortless, watching all of it with that calm th
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Storm-Worn Hearts CHAPTER EIGHTEEN — Evidence That Breathes
The house doesn’t feel like a house after midnight. It becomes a listening animal, every vent a throat, every window an eye, every shadow a place something could hide inside. The air tastes metallic, like fear has a mineral in it, like it leaves residue on your tongue. Kellan’s voice is steady in the hallway, the kind of steady that makes panic feel embarrassed. “Miles, pull the original file if you can. Screenshot isn’t enough if we want metadata. Jace, Rowan, perimeter, but you do not leave the property line. Dawson, stay inside.” Dawson doesn’t move. His eyes are on the phone in Miles’s hands, like the screen is a wound and he’s trying to decide whether to cauterize it with fire or stitch it shut with discipline. His jaw is clenched so hard I can almost hear enamel protesting. “Dawson.” My voice comes out softer than I mean it to. Not because I’m gentle because I’m careful. There’s a diff
Storm-Worn Hearts CHAPTER SEVENTEEN — The Quiet After
The backyard is still warm when the sun finally gives up. It clings to the concrete around the pool, to the metal of the patio chairs, to the air itself, like the day is reluctant to leave us alone with the night. Laughter has a way of doing that. It presses itself into corners. It lingers in the spaces between people, making those spaces feel less like distance and more like something you could cross without bleeding.Inside, the house is loud in a new way. Not danger, loud. Not the brittle, listening kind of loud Dawson’s place has been since he came home, where every sound is interrogated, every creak a suspect.This is human loud. Boots kicked off near the entryway. A cooler thumping onto the kitchen tile. Jace narrating his own existence at a volume that suggests he thinks silence is a personal insult. Miles washing dishes like he’s trying to atone for every sin he’s ever committed. Kellan leaning in doorframes, effortless, watching all of it with that calm th
Storm-Worn Hearts CHAPTER SIXTEEN — Smoke, Sunlight, and Quiet Places to Land
The backyard looked like a version of Dawson’s life the war hadn’t touched yet. Blue pool water catching sunlight like it was made of glass. A small patio table with mismatched chairs. The grill already smoking, sweet, dark charcoal curling into the air like a promise. The motion lights and new cameras were still there, of course, perched like watchful birds along the eaves, but in the afternoon they seemed almost… embarrassed. Like even fear had to lower its voice under summer-blue sky.I sat at the small table near the grill with a drink sweating in my hand, something Liberty had mixed with the confidence of a woman who believed citrus could fix trauma. Condensation cooled my palm, but my pulse stayed warm and restless.Dawson stood at the BBQ.Apron on.Tongs in hand.Storm grey eyes narrowed in concentration as if he were defusing something delicate instead of turning burgers.And for a moment, just a moment, he looked like a
Storm-Worn Hearts CHAPTER FIFTEEN — The Kind of Loud That Heals
The doorbell camera chimed, and my body did what it had been trained to do this week, tense first, think second.Fear had become a reflex, a muscle memory. It had taught my shoulders to climb toward my ears and my heartbeat to sprint at shadows.But Dawson’s reaction was different.He checked the camera feed, and something in his face loosened, just a hairline crack in the armour, like relief slipping through before pride could slam the door. “They’re here,” he said quietly. Liberty, flour on her cheek, and a cinnamon roll tray cooling on the counter, lifted her chin like she was greeting a royal delegation. “Good. I made carbs. Let’s see who cries first.” Dawson’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. He opened the door. And the house, this place that had been nothing but locks and watchfulness, filled with voices. Kellan Voss stepped in first like he belonged anywhere he stood. Sandy, b
Storm-Worn Hearts CHAPTER FOURTEEN — Paper on the Door, Fire in the Bones
The note sat on the back door like a held breath.A white rectangle taped too neatly to the glass, as if whoever placed it had taken their time, had wanted us to picture his fingers smoothing the edges, pressing adhesive down with patience.I stood several feet away, heart hammering, while Dawson stayed between me and the door like the space itself could be weaponized. Liberty hovered near the kitchen island with her phone in a death grip, eyes bright with fear she refused to let spill.“Police are on their way,” she said, voice thin.Dawson didn’t look at her. His gaze stayed fixed on the paper.“Don’t touch it,” I murmured, more to myself than anyone.Dawson nodded once, sharp, controlled. “I won’t.”But his hands flexed at his sides like his body disagreed.The camera notification still glowed on his phone screen, the back yard feed replaying that hooded figure moving like a shadow with purpose. The way he’d looked up at the camera, like he’d wanted us to see he wasn’t afraid of be
Storm-Worn Hearts CHAPTER THIRTEEN — Ghosts Don’t Knock
Morning came with the taste of metal in my mouth and the dull ache of vigilance behind my eyes.The kind of ache you get when you’ve been holding your breath for hours, forgetting that oxygen is not a luxury, it’s a requirement.Dawson slept late, which felt like a small miracle and a quiet cruelty. Miracle, because his body had finally accepted rest. Cruelty, because I knew it was borrowed, paid for with my presence and the careful way I’d kept my own fear silent.I lay awake beside him, listening to the soft rhythm of his breathing, watching the line of his jaw in the half-light. He looked younger in sleep, as if exhaustion stripped away the years and left the boy I’d known underneath. But the scars didn’t disappear. Neither did the tension that lived in him like a second skeleton.I thought of Trent on the porch. The wave. The way he’d spoken my name like he was tasting it. Somewhere out there, he was awake too, planning, rehearsing, enjoying t
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