Page 117 of Every Shattered Note
Alec stands near the window, shoulder against the frame, arms crossed.He’s barefoot, wearing jeans that look like they’ve seen too many rehearsal studios and a Henley with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows.He taps a drumstick against his wrist in a steady rhythm, keeping whatever thoughts are rattling around inside his head to himself.
The moment they see me, something shifts.
They all give me that look—the one you get after bleeding out on camera and trying to convince yourself it was healing.When really, it felt more like surviving a car crash where you’re not sure how many limbs you’ve got left.It’s the look that sayswe support you even through everything.That saysyou made it.That saysyou’re stillhere—even if you’re not sure what part of you survived.
“Hey,” Roderick says first, voice calm.“You made it.”
“Barely,” I answer, and I’m not sure if I mean physically or emotionally.
Barret nods.“You didn’t combust on live TV.I call that a win.”
“Feels like I did,” I mutter.
“You burned the right bridges,” Alec adds without looking away from the ocean.“The rest weren’t worth crossing anyway.”
The music softens behind us, bleeding into the cracks of the room.I step farther inside, feel the heat of it—all of them.They’re not hugging me, not offering speeches, just being here.Which is exactly what I need right now.
I sit on the edge of the couch.Arlo crawls toward me, offering his soft giraffe like it’s a gift.I take it.The giraffe’s body is soft with bright red spots that don’t make much sense.But Arlo doesn’t care.It’s squishy and probably covered in drool.I grip it tightly anyway.
“Is this for me?”I ask.
He grins—pure joy—and lifts his hands in that wobbly way that means “up.”I lean forward and scoop him into my lap.He settles instantly, like he’s decided I’m just another thing in this house that belongs to him now.
I exhale slowly and let my hand settle on Arlo’s back.He’s small—soft warmth in footie pajamas and a diaper that crinkles slightly when he shifts.And yet, the calm he gives me?It fills every space I didn’t know was frayed.
It sneaks up on me.This longing.Not for a child exactly, but for something that's mine.A life with less noise and more moments like this.The thought startles me, punches through my ribs.And just as quickly, it slips away.There’s too much still unfinished—too many things still dragging at my heels.
It feels like I need to earn peace before I can ask for joy.Fuck, before I can ask her for anything.
“Hey,” Roderick says again from the floor, his voice light but not flippant.He offers a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.“You survived.”
“Barely,” I murmur.
He nods, slowly.Like he’s lived through just enough fire to recognize the smoke still clinging to me.Like he knows what it costs to gut yourself in public and still pretend you’re whole.
“You were ...brave,” he says.“Which, for a Vaughn, is like tap-dancing over landmines while the world watches.”
I huff out a laugh, more breath than sound.
Eddie doesn’t pause by the door.He walks straight toward Barret, who’s still at the piano, his fingers hovering like he hasn’t quite decided whether to play or stay quiet.
Without a word, Eddie leans in, cups the back of Barret’s neck, and presses a kiss to his cheek.Then, to his mouth, lingering just long enough to say everything he doesn’t voice aloud.
“Hi, babe,” he murmurs.
Barret exhales softly—like that small word unspooled something inside him.His eyes close, and for a second, it’s just the two of them, orbiting each other like they’ve always done, like nothing outside this moment can touch them.
After, B shoots me a look and says mockingly, “Hey, glad you’re back and we didn’t have to bail you out of jail.”
Eddie rolls his eyes.“He didn’t go rogue, so I let him live.”
“I wasn’t betting on rogue,” Alec mutters from across the room.He still hasn’t looked away from the window.“I was betting on blood.”
“There was blood,” I say.“You just didn’t see it.”
Alec turns his head slowly, mouth twitching at the edge.“No, I mean more like—you were going to hire a hitman.Get Malcolm taken out the old-fashioned way.”
I arch a brow, and before I can answer, Eddie points a warning finger at me.“We’re not hiring a fucking hitman.”
