Outside, the brothers’ laughter faintly drifts through the floorboards. Engines rumble somewhere in the background. It’s the sound of life refusing to die, even in a world shaped by loss. For once, I let myself believe in it.
Syvannah drifts off, her breath warm against my neck. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, knowing that tomorrow will bring blood, war, and choices I can’t undo.
But right now, there’s this. Her heartbeat, her warmth, the calm before everything falls apart again. And for tonight, that’s enough.
11
SYVANNAH
Morning sunlight spills through the blinds like a challenge. I blink against it, caught between warmth and disbelief. Tiny’s heavy arm is across my waist, his breathing deep and steady. For a few seconds, I just watch him. The way his chest rises and falls, the faint scar that runs along his ribs.
Peanut is curled at the edge of the bed, one paw over her face like she’s shielding her eyes from reality, too.
I smile, small and stupid. We let the world fall away for one night. But peace doesn’t last.
Tiny stirs beside me, blinking awake. His voice is rough, low. “Morning.”
“Barely,” I tease. “You sleep?”
“Some.” He shifts, stretches, and the movement pulls the sheet down his chest. The sight should make me melt, but instead, it twists something in my gut. The guilt. The what-now. The ghosts that never stay buried.
He catches the look and smirks like he knows what I’m thinking. “Don’t start overanalyzing it, Syv.”
“Too late.”
He leans in and presses a soft, grounding kiss to my forehead. “We’re good.”
I want to believe him. I really do. But belief has always been my weakest muscle. Every time I’ve trusted someone, it’s cost me blood or pieces I never got back. Tiny says we’re good, and I almost let myself breathe it in. Almost.
Then he looks away first. Not like a man hiding guilt, but like someone who’s learned to build walls so quietly that you don’t notice until you’re standing outside them. That’s what breaks me.
I tell myself it’s nothing. That I’m overthinking. That men like Tiny survive by not saying everything. But the silence between us feels heavier than the air, thick with things we’re both pretending not to notice.
So, I do what I’ve always done when the walls start closing in. I move. I shower, put on a little mascara, and don jeans that make me feel human. By the time the sun’s high in the sky, I’ve convinced myself I can leave the doubt in the sheets.
By noon, the club’s parking lot looks like a makeshift carnival. Royal Dancers is hosting their charity showcase, the one Dagger’s been planning for months. Kids from the high school stand in clusters, filled with nervous energy in the heat. Parents linger near the food trucks, where the smell of fried dough and motor oil mixes in the air like chaos pretending to be a celebration.
Nadia’s girls line up in glitter and nerves. Danyella’s got the Little Bastards in matching black shirts, passing out flyers like tiny CEOs. Red sets up a speaker tower with just enough bass to make Trigger mutter about “budgeting for subwoofers.”
Dagger owns the mic like he was born with it. “Royal Dancers thanks every parent, partner, and hooligan, present company, who showed up so these kids get a shot that doesn’t require bail money.” Laughter erupts. He winks at Nina. “Special thanks to our high-school outreach liaison who insisted on actuallesson plans so we don’t teach your children to swear in three languages.”
That’s when she walks in.
Ms. Emerson is tall, with long legs, brown eyes like a lit match, and she wears black glasses that shadow her dark complexion. She holds a clipboard close, like a judge’s gavel.
Dagger stalls mid-spiel. “And, uh… curriculum… uh… focus areas…”
Torch yells from the snow-cone cart, “Use your words, Reverend!”
Dagger clears his throat. “Right. Words. I’ve got ‘em. You,” he points at Ms. Emerson, then drops his finger like it’s hot. “Thank you for trusting us with your students. We’ll earn it.”
Her smile is small, precise, devastating. “Prove it.”
Beside me, Nadia whispers, “He’s gone.”
“Buried,” I confirm with a giggle.
The first group of dancers takes the stage. Bare feet thud, then glide. A girl who wouldn’t meet my eyes last month hits a line so clean it makes my throat sting. We clap as if our lives depend on it.