06. anthony's angel

Anthony’s attempts to help Angel heal push them both into uncharted emotional territory.

ANTHONY HARRIS

The unsaved number lit up my screen again, vibrating like it was trying to claw its way into my life. For the third time today, I swiped it away, sending it straight to voicemail without a second thought. Whatever it was, it could wait.

Right now, my focus was on what was in front of me—a woman barely keeping it together, her edges frayed, unraveling with every passing hour. Her son, her entire world, was lying in that hospital bed, breathing and healing but still tethered to the memory of that accident. The kind of memory that digs its claws into you and doesn’t let go.

Angel had seen it all—the car, her son getting hit, her own body getting clipped. That kind of trauma doesn’t just haunt you; it embeds itself under your skin, settles in your chest, and doesn’t let you breathe right. She wasn’t sleeping. Not really. She’d drift off in these broken, jagged cat naps, only to jolt awake screaming or crying, her grief chasing her even when her eyes were closed.

During the day, she wasn’t much better. Tears would spill over without warning, silent and constant as she sat by his bed, staring at him like he might disappear if she blinked. I could see her breaking piece by piece, her edges sharp and brittle. And when she wasn’t crying, she was staring at her hands like they might hold the answer to some question she didn’t know how to ask.

Food? Forget it. I could barely get her to sip water without begging. Watching her pick at a piece of toast felt like a damn victory. She was falling apart, and I knew if I didn’t step in, there wouldn’t be anything left to hold onto.

She didn’t want to leave the hospital. I understood that—how could she when her baby was lying there? But we were past the point of understanding. We were at the breaking point. She needed to eat. She needed a shower. She needed to feel human again, and whether she liked it or not, I was going to make sure she did.

Hell, I wasn’t doing much better myself. I’d spent the last few nights trying to fit on that little cheap-ass chair in his room until my back started screaming at me. One night, she was screaming from a nightmare, eyes still closed. I tried to wake her, but instead she clung to me in her sleep like I was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth. I ended up laying down with her, and for the first time, she slept for more than an hour. That became our routine—me holding so she could finally got some rest.

But as I lay there those nights, holding her while she slept, my mind wouldn’t shut off. Bishop’s words kept echoing in my head. Why was she living in that trailer park? What the hell was her rich ex-husband’s excuse? Why wasn’t this Carlos Steinburg answering the damn phone? Three days had passed since the accident, and not one damn call back about his son. Not one. It didn’t make any sense, and the more I thought about it, the angrier I got.

Angel wasn’t just dealing with the accident—she was carrying years of shit on her back. I could see it in the way she talked, the way she moved, the way she referred to herself as cursed like she’d been convinced that was her lot in life. That stuck with me, too. Cursed.

But no. I wasn’t about to let her sit in that.

It was time to stop treading lightly. I had to put my foot down.

I stood up, stretching the ache out of my back, and looked over at her. She was sitting by the window in the room, staring out at nothing, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She looked small, fragile, like the weight of the world was pressing her down into that chair.

“Angel,” I said, my voice steady yet exhausted as I stepped into her space. “We’re leaving this hospital today. You’re getting out of here for a minute. Shower. Food. Rest.”

Her head whipped toward me, eyes dull, like the words bounced off her without making a dent.

“I can’t leave him,” she whispered, her voice brittle. Her arms tightened around herself like she was trying to keep it all together by sheer will. “I won’t leave him.”

“I’m not asking, Angel.” My words came out firm, resolute, my arms crossing as I squared my stance. The weight of her resistance pressed heavy on the space between us, but I wasn’t budging. “We’re going. You need this.”

Her gaze shifted to the small figure in the hospital bed, her son, her world, her reason for living. Her shoulders rose and fell with shallow breaths, her lips pressed tight, but the tears were there, pooling in her eyes, fighting to break free.

“Anthony, no,” she said, her voice shaking, but there was steel in it too, buried under the exhaustion and fear. “You can go if you want, but I’m not leaving him. Not now. Not ever.”

I sighed, my chest tightening like a vice, her words hitting something deep in me.

“He’s not going home tomorrow, Angel. He’s still in that bed, and he needs you at a hundred when he wakes up. Not like this.” My tone softened just enough, trying to reach her through the wall she was building. “What happens to him if you fall apart? Huh? Who’s he got if you crumble?”

“You don’t understand!” she snapped, her voice sharp and raw as she shot to her feet. The chair screeched against the floor, her hands trembling as she paced toward the window. “You don’t understand, Anthony!” Her voice cracked, the weight of her words hanging heavy in the room.

The unsaved number buzzed on my phone again, but I ignored it, shoving it back into my pocket as I focused on Angel. She was staring at the floor like it held the answers to questions she couldn’t bring herself to ask.

“Angel,” I said, my voice steady, calm, but leaving no room for argument. I stepped into her space, letting her feel me there without crowding her. “We’re leaving this hospital today. You’re getting out of here. You’re taking a shower, eating real food, and sleeping in a real bed. You can fight me if you want, but you need to get out this hospital. Even if I have to take you out of here kicking and screaming.”

She looked up at me, her hollow eyes meeting mine with a flicker of defiance.

“No,” she said, her voice shaking, but firm. “I’m staying with DJ.”

“I’m not giving you a choice,” I replied, crossing my arms and planting my feet. “You need this, Angel. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for him.”

Her lip trembled, and I caught the way her hands clenched into fists, like she was bracing herself for battle. “I don’t care what you think I need, Anthony. What I need is to stay with my son. You don’t get it.”

“Then help me understand,” I said, my voice softer now, but no less steady. “Talk to me. Tell me what you’re so afraid of.”

Her voice cracked as she shouted, “I’m afraid of him needing me, and I’m not here! I’m afraid he’ll wake up scared and alone, and I won’t be here to hold his hand!” Tears streamed down her face, her body trembling with the force of her grief. “I’m scared, Ant. What if something happens while I’m gone?”

I met her gaze, my eyes locked on hers. “If something happens, Mama Harris will call us, and we’ll be back in minutes. I already arranged for her to come sit with him He won’t be alone, Angel. He’s got a whole team here that my brother flew in, people who care about him. The best of the best. You’re not abandoning him; you’re taking care of yourself so you can take care of him.”

Right then on que, Mama Harris walked in, her presence like a steady anchor in a storm. She wrapped me in a hug I didn’t realize I needed. “Ant, baby, you look exhausted,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “You sure you can drive?”

“I’m good, Mama,” I said, pulling back and forcing a small smile.

She turned to Angel, pulling her into a hug that was as much a comfort as it was a command. “Baby girl,” she said, brushing a stray curl from Angel’s face, “you need to go. I’ll be watching your little boy so you can catch a breather, ok?”

Angel hesitated, her lips trembling as she glanced back at her son. I could see the fight in her, but it was fading, worn down by exhaustion and the quiet strength of my mother’s words.

“We’ll be back, Angel,” I said, my hands resting on her shoulders, steadying her.

Her eyes filled with tears, but she nodded, her walls finally giving way. “Okay,” she whispered, her voice breaking as she kissed her son’s forehead.

I guided her out, easing her into the truck. She hesitated, her hands twitching like she wanted to refuse my help, but she let me buckle her in without a word. Pride and exhaustion were battling in her eyes, but exhaustion won.

The unsaved number buzzed again as I made my way around to the driver’s side. I didn’t even look at the screen this time, shoving the phone back into my pocket. Whatever it was could wait. Right now, all that mattered was getting Angel what she needed—whether she realized it or not.

I didn’t need directions. The address was already etched into my mind from filling out the hospital forms. Her trailer came into view, worn and beaten down, the kind of place that looked like it had been through just as much as the person living in it. The siding was chipped, the steps rusted, the kind of spot you don’t choose—it chooses you when life’s dealt you nothing but bad hands. Angel didn’t move. She just sat there, staring at her hands again.

“This it?” I asked, my voice low, careful not to push too hard.

She nodded once, quick and stiff, her eyes not leaving her lap. It wasn’t shame exactly, but it was something close. Like the weight of her circumstances was too much to carry, and now someone else was seeing it.

“It’s alright,” I said, keeping my tone even, throwing her a small smile as I climbed out of the truck. I walked over to her side, opening the door and helping her out. She let me, didn’t argue, but she still wouldn’t look at me.

“You need help in there?” I asked, my eyes flicking to the sling on her arm.

“No,” she said quietly, shaking her head. “I just need to grab my spare key from under the mat.”

She hesitated, standing there like she was bracing for something, then moved toward the door like she was trying to make herself smaller. I watched her go, the way her shoulders hunched, the way her feet shuffled. The door creaked as it opened, and then she was gone.

I leaned back against the truck, crossing my arms and letting my eyes roam the neighborhood. The place was quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that didn’t feel peaceful—just empty.

The phone buzzed in my pocket again, that same unsaved number flashing on the screen. My jaw tightened as I stared at it, my thumb hovering over the screen. Then, like clockwork, I pressed ignore. Again. Whatever it was could wait. Right now, Angel needed me more.

The screen door screeched as she stepped out, a small bag slung over her good shoulder. Without a word, she handed it to me, and I tossed it into the backseat. This time, she didn’t resist as I helped her into the truck and buckled her in. She just stared straight ahead, her gaze unfocused, like she wasn’t really seeing anything.

The drive to my place was quiet, but not in a bad way. Angel seemed calmer, like the weight had shifted just enough for her to breathe. My place was tucked away, a good fifteen minutes away, hidden behind rows of tall trees that felt like they were guarding something sacred. I’d bought the land a few years back, a little over five acres, and built the ranch I’d been dreaming about since I was a kid. It wasn’t flashy—just a couple of horses, some cows, and a few chickens. Enough to feel like my own little world.

As we pulled up, the main house came into view, its wraparound porch and cedar siding blending into the landscape like it had always been there. I caught Angel glancing out the window, her eyes scanning the property with something that looked like quiet wonder, but she didn’t say anything.

“Don’t touch that handle,” I warned as her hand hovered near the door. My voice wasn’t sharp, but it carried weight. She froze, her eyes cutting toward me, unsure.

I hopped out, walked around, and opened the door myself, unbuckling her seatbelt with a deliberate gentleness. I grabbed her bag, slinging it over my shoulder before helping her down. Her fingers brushed mine for a second, light and tentative, before she pulled away, keeping close but cautious.

The gravel crunched under our feet as I led her to the front porch. She moved slow, her head on a swivel, eyes darting from the barn in the distance to the wraparound porch to the thick tree line that framed the property.

“This is your house?” she asked, her voice soft, almost disbelieving. Her gaze lingered on the cedar siding and the porch swing, the kind of details that told you this wasn’t just a house—it was a home.

“Yeah,” I said, punching in the code to the front door. The keypad beeped softly, the sound breaking the quiet around us.

She hesitated, standing on the porch like the threshold was some invisible wall she wasn’t sure she should cross.

“You sure I’m not intruding? Whoever you live with…they gonna be upset that I’m here?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, but the weight of her worry was deafening.

I turned to face her fully, the bag slipping off my shoulder and landing on the porch with a soft thud.

“Angel,” I said, my voice steady but firm. “You’re not intruding. I live alone. That trailer out back?” I glanced toward the eyesore D had parked on my property without so much as a heads-up. Typical little brother. I’d deal with him later. “It’s my brothers mobile studio. He’s back there working—but in this house? It’s just me and you.” I softened my tone, letting it go gentle. “Come on.”

She lingered for a second longer, her hand gripping the strap of her sling like it might ground her. Then she nodded, barely, and stepped forward.

The door creaked open, the warmth of the house spilling out into the cool air. The scent of cedar hit first, faintly mixed with coffee and the faintest trace of pine cleaner I’d used last week. Angel paused in the entryway, her eyes sweeping across the space.

The living room opened up before her—earthy tones, worn leather furniture. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books and photos, a few trophies from my high school and college days shoved into the corner like they didn’t matter as much anymore. The hardwood floors groaned under her weight as she took a hesitant step inside, her gaze drifting to the mantle where a framed photo of me and my brothers sat front and center.

“It’s nice,” she said finally, her voice soft, like she was testing the words out. There was something else there too—relief, maybe. Or something close to it. “So peaceful.”

“Exactly what I was going for when I built it,” I said, hanging my car keys on the hook by the door with a quiet clink. The sound was sharp in the stillness of the room, like a reminder that we’d left the chaos of the hospital behind, even if it was just for a little while. I turned to her, my voice softer now. “Guest room’s this way. You can get cleaned up, take a minute to breathe.”

She followed, her steps hesitant, deliberate, like she wasn’t sure she belonged in a place like this. Like she thought her presence might crack the peace of it somehow. I slowed my stride, letting her set the pace, and stopped in front of a door down the hall. I pushed it open to reveal a simple room bathed in soft, late-afternoon light.

The queen-sized bed was covered in a thick navy comforter, neatly tucked and inviting. A matching dresser stood against the wall, and a door led to a small ensuite bathroom. The window overlooked the pasture out back, where my horses grazed lazily, their silhouettes framed by golden rays of sunlight.

“You’ll have everything you need in here,” I said, stepping aside so she could take it in. “Towels are in the bathroom. Mama came by before heading to the hospital, stocked the toiletries. I hope it’s the kind of stuff you like.”

She turned to me, her eyes softer now, though still edged with something unsure. “Thank you, Anthony. For all of this.”

“Don’t mention it,” I replied, my voice low, steady, like I wasn’t rattled by the way she looked at me just then.

Her eyes dropped to her arm, still strapped in that sling, and I didn’t wait for her to ask. I stepped forward, careful, and helped ease her out of it. My fingers brushed her skin as I worked the straps free, her breath hitching slightly at the contact, though she didn’t pull away. I stepped back once it was off, giving her space.

She nodded her thanks, her lips pressing together in a faint, tired smile before she turned and disappeared into the room. I stayed by the doorframe, leaning against it as the bathroom door clicked shut behind her. For the first time in days, I let out a deep breath, running a hand over my face.

I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, but one thing was clear: I couldn’t stop now. Angel needed me, and whether I was ready for it or not, I was here.

I moved to the kitchen, opening cabinets and the fridge, trying to take stock of what I had left after being away for a few days. Most of it was basic staples, but I found what I needed to throw together a stuffed blueberry French toast bake. Quick and easy, something warm to put in her stomach.

I prepped it fast, moving on autopilot, slicing bread, whisking eggs, and layering blueberries like my hands already knew the routine. Once it was in the oven, I headed to take a shower myself. The bathroom filled with steam as the hot water ran over me, the heat pulling the exhaustion to the surface. My body screamed for sleep, but I couldn’t afford to stop moving.

I cut the shower short, went through my hygiene routine—brushing my teeth, shaving the scruff from my jaw, slapping on some lotion to keep from looking as tired as I felt. By the time I got dressed, pulling on sweats and a hoodie, I felt the drag in my bones, but I pushed it down. Angel needed me to keep it together.

When I walked back into the kitchen, I stopped in my tracks. Angel was sitting at the counter, her hair wrapped in a towel piled high on her head. She wore an oversized, worn t-shirt that hung off the shoulder that her sling had been secured on without my help, paired with black leggings that clung to her frame. Her bare feet dangled off the barstool, her toes tapping lightly against the wood.

She turned, catching me standing there, and smiled—soft, almost shy.

“That was quick,” I said, moving past her to check the oven. The warm scent of blueberries and cinnamon filled the kitchen, mixing with the quiet hum of the house. “Figured you’d soak in the tub or something. Take your time.”

She shrugged, tugging the towel tighter around her damp curls like she was trying to shrink into herself.

“I didn’t want to take up too much time. Run your water bill up or something,” she said softly, her voice carrying that worn-out edge she’d had since the hospital. “This isn’t my place.”

I stopped what I was doing, turning to face her fully. It wasn’t just the words; it was the way she said them, like she really believed she was a burden, like she’d been told that so many times it’d started to stick. That shit didn’t sit right with me.

“Angel,” I said, leaning back against the counter, my voice steady but firm. “I brought you here because you needed a break. Because you needed somewhere safe to land for a minute. So, if you wanna soak in the tub until the water goes cold, do it. If you wanna go for a walk and get some fresh air, you can. Whatever you need, take it. You’re safe here.”

Her eyes flicked up to mine, wide and uncertain, but I caught the way her shoulders loosened just a little, like she was starting to believe me.

“Thanks, Anthony,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Before I could say anything else, the oven timer beeped, breaking the moment. I turned, grabbing a dish towel to pull out the French toast bake. The golden crust, dotted with blueberries, glistened in the soft kitchen light as I set it on the counter. The smell hit full force, warm and inviting, and I glanced over to see her watching, her eyes following the dish like it was some kind of miracle.

“Alright,” I said, grabbing two plates from the cabinet. “This should hold you over for a bit.” I plated a generous portion for her, sliding it across the counter. “Go ahead, dig in.”

She hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the towel around her head. Her eyes darted between the plate and me like she was trying to figure out if this was real or some kind of setup.

“Did you… did you make this for me?” she asked, her voice small.

“Yeah,” I said, sitting across from her and plating my own serving. “Told you, you need to eat. Don’t make me have to feed you like a toddler.” I tried to lighten the mood with a smirk, but she was still holding back, like she didn’t know if she could trust the moment.

She picked up her fork, poking at the French toast before cutting a small piece and bringing it to her lips. The second it hit her tongue, her eyes closed, and a soft sigh escaped her, the tension in her body easing even more.

“Good?” I asked, pouring her a glass of orange juice and sliding it her way.

Her lips curved into the faintest smile as she nodded. “This is… really good,” she admitted, her voice almost embarrassed that I could see how much she loved it. “Do you cook a lot?”

“Yeah,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “Mama kept me in the kitchen growing up. Said it was a life skill, not just women’s work. Turns out, it’s one of the ways I show people I care about them.”

Her fork paused mid-air, and she looked at me like I’d just said something foreign, something she hadn’t heard in a long time. Her eyes flicked back to her plate, and for a second, I thought she was about to cry again.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, leaning forward.

She shook her head, brushing a hand across her face like she was trying to wipe away whatever emotion was threatening to spill out.

“Nothing,” she said quickly. But her voice cracked on the word, giving her away.

“Angel,” I said gently, my voice softer now. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

She hesitated, her grip tightening on her fork before she set it down. Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, but she just shook her head again, her shoulders slumping. I didn’t push. I just waited, letting the silence fill the space between us, hoping she’d feel safe enough to speak.

“Anthony,” she started, her voice trembling like a wire pulled too tight, ready to snap. “You’re doing a lot for someone you don’t even know. And people…” She trailed off, shaking her head like she was trying to erase some invisible stain in her mind. “There’s always an exchange. Always something they want.” Her eyes filled with tears, spilling over before she could catch them. “The whole drive here, I told myself I’d give it to you if I had to. I’d do what I needed to do. For my son, I’d—”

“Whoa, Angel.” I cut her off, my voice low, steady, trying to anchor her before she unraveled completely. “What are you talking about?”

Her eyes snapped up to meet mine, wide and wet with a pain I couldn’t place, but felt all the same.

“I can’t have sex with you, Ant,” she blurted out, her words crashing into the quiet like a car through glass. “That’s why you brought me here, isn’t it? To your house, all the way out here? That’s why you’re being so nice.”

For a second, the world tilted. Her words hit like a gut punch, leaving me reeling, trying to catch up.

“What?” I said, blinking hard like I’d misheard her. “Angel, what the fuck are you saying?”

Her arms wrapped around herself like she was trying to disappear, her voice trembling. “That’s what people do. They help, but it’s not free. There’s always a price.”

I leaned back, shaking my head in disbelief. I felt something hot and bitter rise in my chest—anger, sadness, frustration. Not at her, but at whoever made her feel this way.

“Angel,” I said, my tone firm now, cutting through her spiraling thoughts. “I don’t want anything from you. Nothing. I brought you here to take a break, so you could take care of yourself while your son heals. That’s it.”

Her hands gripped the counter so hard her knuckles turned white, her body stiff like she was bracing for a hit that wasn’t coming.

“But you’re doing all this nice stuff,” she whispered, her voice so soft it barely made it past the space between us.

“Because I want to,” I said, leaning forward, my voice calm but leaving no room for doubt. “Not because I expect anything from you.”

She shook her head, her curls bouncing with the movement, disbelief etched into every line of her face.

“Ant,” she said, her voice cracking, “please don’t lie to me.”

Her words landed like a slap, sharp and stinging, and for a moment, I didn’t know what to say. The weight of what she’d been through hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

“Angel,” I said, my voice softer now, but no less firm. “What kind of man do you think I am?”

Her eyes darted away, her fingers twisting the edge of the counter like it might anchor her.

“I don’t know you, Anthony. Not really,” she said, her words slow and careful, as if she hated admitting it. “People like you, don’t help people like me.”

My chest tightened, her words slicing deeper than I expected. People like me?

“Listen to me, Angel,” I said, my voice low but fierce, like I could make her believe me by sheer will alone. “I’m not here to take anything from you. I’m here because I want to be. Because I care. No strings, no bullshit.”

Her eyes flicked back to mine, searching for something—truth, maybe. Hope. Whatever it was, I held her gaze, steady as I could be, until I saw the tiniest crack in her walls. Her lip quivered, and she nodded, barely, like she was testing the idea out in her own head.

“You’re safe here, Angel,” I said, my voice soft but sure. “And I don’t want a damn thing from you except for you to take care of yourself. That’s it.”

Her shoulders sagged like the weight she’d been carrying was finally starting to lift, and for the first time since I’d brought her here, I saw her take a deep breath. A real one.

She stared at me, her defenses falling away piece by piece.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice so fragile it was barely there. “I didn’t mean to accuse you of—”

“Stop,” I said, trying to catch her before she fell into whatever spiral she was teetering on. “You don’t owe me an apology. You’ve been through some shit—clearly. But let me make one thing real clear. I didn’t bring you here to have sex or harm you in any kind of way. I’m not the guy.”

I could see her breathing hitch, her lips trembling like she was holding back more than just tears. Something in my gut twisted, and before I could think better of it, I asked, “Your son’s dad…does he make you do things in exchange for doing what’s he’s supposed to do as a father? Does he help at all?”

Her hands trembled as she wiped at her face, her lips quivering. “He doesn’t help much…but yea. If I really need something, when I’m desperate enough, I have to…”

The air in the room seemed to still, thick with the weight of what she couldn’t even finish. My stomach churned. The thought of her having to barter for her child’s well-being made my blood boil.

“You gotta have sex with him so he can take care of his own son?” The words flew out before I could stop them, blunt and raw, disbelief bleeding into every syllable.

Her head dropped, her curls spilling over her face as she nodded—a small, broken motion that hit me like a sucker punch.

“How often does he come around?” I asked, the anger rising like a wave I couldn’t hold back. “You haven’t even been able to get him on the phone. What kind of man does that?”

“He…comes around when he feels like it. Spends a couple of minutes with DJ, then makes me… do things with him while he dangles a couple of dollars over my head. Money I need to keep a roof over us.”

She hesitated, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, before her voice cracked again. “We used to be married, but now he’s remarried. His wife hates me, hates my son. He doesn’t take DJ anywhere, doesn’t bring him around his other kids. We’re just…trash. Trailer trash he can’t be bothered with.”

The way she said it—it wasn’t just words. It was years of pain and shame packed into one breath, spilling out like she’d been holding it in forever. My chest felt tight, like I couldn’t draw a full breath, but my focus stayed locked on her.

Since she was opening up, I kept her talking. Truthfully, I needed her to. I needed to know everything—shit Bishop and those files couldn’t tell me—because I was feeling things I couldn’t explain, and I had more questions than I had answers.

“He ever put his hands on you?” I asked, my voice steady but laced with an edge I couldn’t hide. The thought alone had me tensing, my fists curling at my sides, bracing for whatever she might say. I wasn’t sure what scared me more—the answer I was anticipating or the fact that I cared this damn much.

“No. Never,” she whispered, her voice so soft it was almost swallowed by the space between us. “But… he talks down to me. Tells me how fat I am, calls me stupid, says I’m a bad mom. Poor. That I’m nothing without him. All kinds of really bad things.”

“So he emotionally and verbally abuses you, Angel,” I said, my voice low but firm, steady like the calm before a storm. “Words like that? They hit just as hard as a fist. Sometimes harder. Don’t let him get away with that shit.”

Her shoulders hunched, like she was trying to fold in on herself. She looked down at her hands, twisting them together in her lap like she could tie up all the broken pieces and hold them in place.

“I don’t let him,” she said quietly, but her voice cracked on the words, betraying her.

Now it made sense. Carlos had her head all fucked up. The way she carried herself, the way she looked at me like I had some ulterior motive—this dude had planted seeds of doubt so deep she couldn’t see past them. Couldn’t see herself.

I leaned forward, dropping my voice low, making sure there was no escape for her eyes, no room for her to look anywhere but at me.

“Angel,” I said, my tone steady, carrying a weight I needed her to feel, “you’re not what he says you are. Don’t let that bullshit stick to you. He’s a coward. You’re stronger than him, even if you don’t believe it yet.”

Her voice came out so soft, it felt like it might shatter under the weight of her words. “But he’s right,” she whispered, and it was like she was bleeding in front of me, invisible wounds I couldn’t bandage. “Sometimes I feel like he’s right.”

My stomach twisted. Nah. Hell no.

Without thinking, I moved around the counter, planting myself right in front of her. I spun her stool, making her face me, her knees brushing against my legs. I crouched slightly, leveling her gaze with mine, leaving no space for her to retreat.

“No,” I said, firm enough to cut through the bullshit. “He’s not right. Not even close. Don’t you ever let some sorry-ass motherfucker who can’t even show up for his own son tell you who you are. That’s not a man. That’s a piece of shit.”

Her eyes widened, and for a second, I thought she might argue, but the tears spilled over instead, rolling silently down her cheeks. I could see it—the years of carrying this weight, of believing his poison, of fighting alone. Words weren’t going to be enough. Not with her.

I straightened up, the decision already made. “Alright,” I said, my voice final, my jaw tight. “That shit ends today.”

Her brow furrowed, confusion and fear mixing in her expression. “What are you talking about?”

“I mean, you’re not dealing with him alone anymore,” I said, my tone steady, leaving no room for doubt. “You need help, you come to me. Him, his wife, whoever—none of them get to treat you or DJ like that again. Ever. You hear me? Not while I’m around. I’m your friend, Angel. And friends? Friends take care of each other. I don’t stand by and watch the people I care about get disrespected.”

Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, but no words came out. Just more tears.

“You’re not trash,” I said, my voice softening as I crouched again, bringing us eye to eye. “Don’t let that asshole make you think you are. You’ve been fighting so damn hard, doing everything on your own. You’re tired, Angel. That’s all it is. Tired doesn’t mean weak. Tired doesn’t mean worthless.”

She didn’t say anything, but the way her eyes softened—somewhere between gratitude and disbelief—told me everything I needed to know. She’d been battling alone for so long, she didn’t even know what it felt like to let someone else stand with her.

“You’re not alone anymore,” I said. “You got me.”

Must’ve been something I said because the dam broke wide open. We moved to the couch, bringing our plates with us, and she started talking like she couldn’t stop. The words poured out, raw and unfiltered, like they’d been locked up too long. Every sentence she spoke peeled back another layer of her pain, her voice heavy with the weight of it.

She told me about her marriage, how it felt like drowning while being told to smile. About her mother, who didn’t just criticize her but tore her down at every chance, as if she thrived off making her daughter feel small. She talked about the divorce, how it left her stranded, clutching at scraps just to keep her and her son afloat. Cleaning houses wasn’t just a job; it was survival.

She didn’t cry while she talked—no tears, no theatrics—but her voice cracked now and then, her pain slipping through like water from a cracked dam. Her words weren’t just stories; they were scars, and every one of them dug under my skin. I let her talk, didn’t interrupt, just nodded when she paused, letting her unload everything she’d been carrying. Meanwhile, I was sitting there, chest tight with a slow-burning rage that was building with every detail she shared.

By the time she was done, she looked drained, like she’d left all her strength there on the table between us. Hollowed out, but maybe a little lighter, like she could breathe for the first time in forever.

She needed this. Needed to get all that shit out. And as much as I hated admitting it to myself, she needed me, too. I wasn’t sure when or how I became that for her, but I could feel it. Hell, I’d been feeling it since the hospital, and now I was in too deep to pull back. Not that I wanted to.

But right now? I was running on fumes and it was taking every ounce of restraint I had not to jump in my truck, track down Carlos, and handle him the way I really wanted to.

“You need to rest,” I said, my voice low and steady, standing up and gesturing toward the guest room. “Go on, Angel. Get some sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Her eyes widened a little, like she was surprised I wasn’t trying to keep her talking.

I watched her go, letting out a long breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. She looked more vulnerable, but there was something else—something that told me maybe, just maybe, she was starting to trust me.

As soon as her door clicked shut, I dragged myself toward my own room. My body begged for sleep, but my mind was on overdrive, replaying every word she said. Her pain. Her exhaustion. Her goddamn ex-husband. It all sat heavy in my chest, pressing down on me like a hundred-pound chain. I climbed into bed, staring at the ceiling, knowing I’d now have to force myself to sleep despite how bad I needed it.

The bed had barely warmed beneath me when I heard it—a soft knock cutting through the quiet like a whisper meant only for me. My eyes snapped open, and I pushed myself up on my elbows, the door creaking just enough to reveal her standing there.

Angel.

Her curls were damp and loose around her face, catching the dim hallway light. Her bare feet shifted against the floor, nervous. Vulnerable.

“I… uh…” Her voice faltered, so quiet I had to strain to hear it. She wasn’t looking at me, her arms folded across her middle. “I can’t sleep,” she finally admitted. “Not without you.”

Those words hit me in a way I wasn’t ready for. There was something in her tone, in the way her eyes refused to meet mine, that struck deep, right in the place I didn’t let anyone reach. I didn’t ask questions, didn’t make her explain. I just shifted over, pulling back the comforter in silent invitation.

She hesitated for a moment, then made her way over. The bed dipped as she climbed in, her body curling into mine like she’d always belonged there. Like this was more than just a routine we’d fallen into at the hospital. Something stirred in my chest, heavy and unfamiliar, but I was too tired to untangle it just then.

Her skin was warm against mine, and for a while, neither of us said a word.

“Anthony,” she whispered after a while, her voice barely audible, like she was testing the waters.

“Yeah?” My voice came out low, calm, my arm sliding around her waist almost instinctively, pulling her closer. I could feel her heartbeat against me, steady but fragile, like she was trying to keep it all together.

“You said we’re friends now?” Her words were laced with something delicate, something unsure, like she wasn’t used to asking for things she wanted.

I didn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” I said, my voice firm in a way I hoped she could trust. “We’re friends.”

“You really mean that?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I repeated, the word heavier this time, more certain.

She shifted again, her head resting against my chest now, her curls brushing against my jaw. “You won’t hurt me, right?”

That question—those five words—they cut me clean open. My arm tightened around her, holding her like I could shield her from every hurt she’d ever felt, every scar she’d ever carried.

“Never,” I said, my voice steady, low, the kind of promise you don’t make lightly. “I swear, Angel. I won’t ever hurt you. And I’ll never let anybody else hurt you or your son. I put that on everything.”

She didn’t answer right away, but I felt her exhale against me, her body relaxing just a little more, like she was letting herself believe me, even if only for now.

“Please don’t,” she whispered, her voice so soft it was almost lost against my skin.

“I won’t,” I said again, my voice quiet but resolute. The words came out like a vow etched in stone, like something I couldn’t take back even if I wanted to. “Never.”

She didn’t say anything else, and she didn’t need to. Her breathing evened out, soft and steady, and I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, holding her like she was the most precious thing I’d ever had in my arms. In that moment, it didn’t matter how we got here or what came next.

Her burdens were mine now. Whatever this was, whatever it was turning into, I was in it. All the way in. And there was no turning back.

to be contined…

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Discussion Questions:

1. What do you think of Anthony’s approach to helping Angel? Is he doing the right thing by pushing her out of the hospital, or should he have handled it differently?

2. Angel’s belief that kindness always comes with a price is heartbreaking. How do you think her past shaped that perspective? Have you ever known someone like Angel?

3. What does the dynamic between Anthony and Angel tell you about their individual struggles? How do their actions reflect what they need most in this moment?

4. The mysterious unsaved number keeps calling Anthony, but he keeps ignoring it. Who do you think is trying to reach him, and how might it affect his focus on Angel?

5. Angel’s confession about her ex-husband adds a layer of complexity to her character. How do you think this revelation will influence Anthony’s actions moving forward?

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