Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 52357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Justin stands on the other side, holding a takeout bag and two drinks. He looks the same and different. His beard’s a little longer. His Hellions hoodie has paint on the sleeves. His eyes meet mine—warm, steady.
"Didn’t know what you were craving, so I went with Thai," he says. "Figured it’s hard to cry into Pad Thai for lunch."
I huff a quiet breath that might be a laugh.
"Can I come in?"
I hesitate, but step aside. He walks in like he’s done it a hundred times before, but with a new kind of caution. Like he knows he’s entering a museum of grief and doesn’t want to knock anything over.
"You didn’t have to—"
"I wanted to," he says, setting the food on the counter. "And regardless of the past, I’m still your friend. I’m not going anywhere."
That makes something in my chest tighten. Because we do have a past. A long, complicated, beautiful and broken one. And for a moment, I wonder if this is a mistake—letting him in. But then I realize I don’t have the energy to fight him on it. And maybe I don’t want to.
We eat in silence for a while. The food is good, or at least I think it is. I can’t really taste much these days. But I appreciate the warmth of it, the way it fills the quiet between us.
"You’re letting yourself feel it, Dia," he says after a while. "That’s what matters. You don’t have to rush through this."
"It doesn’t feel like I’m feeling it," I murmur. "It feels like I’m dead inside. Like him."
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t offer me a platitude. He just nods.
"I know. I’ve felt that too."
We don’t talk about what we were. Not that night. We don’t talk about how we burned hot and fast once, or how we ended before we really got started. He just stays. And I let him.
A month passes with many evenings just like this one. A quiet dinner with nothing heavy spoken, shared, or felt.
Justin pops in with coffee. With groceries. With a new chew toy for Skye. Sometimes he doesn’t say much. Sometimes he tells me about the shop or the clubhouse or the dumb shit his crew did that day. I start to expect him, even though I never ask him to come. And he never pushes.
He’s just there.
Patient.
And it means more than I can say.
It began after the party and has continued on for the weeks since.
Some nights I cry and he holds me. Other nights we sit on the couch watching shows I don’t remember the next day. He never tries to fix me. He never asks for more.
One night, I find myself thinking back to a time when Justin had shown up for me without hesitation. This was how it started. These moments, he embraced the dumb shit I got myself into, but always he put me back together.
It was years ago, long before things got complicated between us. I was on a date with some guy Maritza set me up with—a banker, clean-cut, all smiles until the drinks kicked in and the charm turned to pressure. He got pushy. Too handsy. I stepped outside under the pretense of taking a call and texted Justin one word:
Help.
He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t hesitate. Fifteen minutes later, the rumble of his bike cut through the street noise like thunder. He pulled up to the curb, cut the engine, and stalked toward me with murder in his eyes. The guy started mouthing off until Justin got within arm’s reach. Then he backed down fast.
"She’s done with this night. Back off," Justin said, his voice low and dangerous.
He put his helmet on my head before I could say a word and helped me onto the back of his bike. As we took off, the wind whipped away the tension, the fear, the anger. I remember clinging to his back, the scent of leather and pine grounding me.
He didn’t speak until we were on an empty stretch of road, stars blinking above us.
"Let it go, Dia," he shouted over the engine. "Let it all go and just feel."
And I did.
I let the cold night air rip through me, let my heartbeat sync with the hum of his bike, let the adrenaline chase away the shame. When we finally stopped, we sat on a bench in front of where he parked his bike drinking lukewarm coffee, watching headlights pass on the highway not far away.
That night, he didn’t try to fix anything. He didn’t try to talk me down or dig into my pain. He just let me be the mess I was.
Back in the present, my chest aches at the memory. I miss that version of us—the friendship before the fire. The way he could look at me and understand without me having to explain. That’s why Justin has always felt like home.