Page 30 of Tyson
"There's no threat here. Just me being an idiot who couldn't stay away from her own shop."
She stepped closer. One foot. Then another. I should warn her. Should tell her to run. Armed man having a flashback—textbook dangerous. But words wouldn't come. Just ragged breathing and the taste of dust that wasn't there.
"Can I?" She meant the weapon.
I managed a nod. Her hand settled over mine, warm and steady. No grabbing, no sudden moves. Just gentle downward pressure.
"There we go. Nice and easy."
The Glock lowered until it pointed at the floor. Safe. Her other hand joined the first, carefully bracketing mine.
"You want to put it down?"
I set the weapon on the concrete, safety still on. My hands shook worse without the weight.
"Hey, you're doing great." Her fingers squeezed mine briefly before letting go.
We stood there in her storage room, surrounded by ink supplies and the lingering ghost of my panic. She'd seen me at my worst—armed, dangerous, lost in my head. And stayed.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
"Sure thing, Soldier Boy." But her eyes were soft. "Just maybe next time have your existential crisis somewhere with better lighting? My storage room ambiance is seriously lacking."
I laughed again, fuller this time. "I'll keep that in mind. Why are you here, Lena?”
She didn’t say anything. Instead, her eyes flicked to the guitar case and the mess of items that lay strewn across the floor. Then, without thinking about it, I sank down to the ground. Lena did the same.
The adrenaline crash hit me hard—limbs heavy, mind finally quiet. Lena pulled her knees to her chest, purple hair falling forward to hide her face.
"I came back for that," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "Couldn't sleep thinking you might find it. Might see . . ."
She trailed off, fingers picking at a hole in her jeans.
"See what?" I kept my voice gentle, non-threatening. "That you need comfort sometimes?"
Her laugh was bitter, sharp enough to cut. "That I'm exactly what Cruz said I was. Pathetic little girl who can't function without her—" She bit off the words, shoulders hunching.
"Stop." The command in my voice made her look up, startled. "Whatever he told you, it was manipulation. Control."
"You don't even know who he—"
"I don't need to." I shifted closer, careful not to crowd her. "I know the type. They find your soft spots and dig in. Make you hate the parts of yourself that need care."
Her eyes searched mine, wary but wanting to believe. "Voice of experience?"
"Different kind of experience." I rubbed my jaw, choosing words carefully. "But yeah, there are parts of me I’m not proud of. I know how it feels.”
“Suppose it wouldn’t help if I told you that it’s not your fault? Those parts of you?”
I laughed a grim laugh.
“It’s different.”
“How so.”
I sighed. “People lost their lives because of me."
Her eyes widened. “I didn’t know.”
