Storm-Worn Hearts
His eyes meet mine, and for a moment I see the two versions of him battling in the same body: the protector who wants to run toward the fire, and the man who promised me, who promised himself, that he would not burn the world down for relief.
He nods once. “Clean,” he repeats, like he’s swallowing glass.
We drive in a small convoy through the sleeping town. Police cruiser first. Then Kellan’s truck. Then Dawson’s, with me in the passenger seat and Liberty in the back, silent and trembling and furious.
Streetlights smear gold across the windshield. Every red light feels like a hand on my throat. I keep catching my reflection in the glass, eyes too bright, jaw too tight, like I’m watching anot
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