I didn’t expect to feel safe here.
Not after everything. Not after the way silence used to mean danger, and kindness came with strings. But Jasper’s quiet is different. It hums low, steady. Like the rumble of bikes in the distance or the soft laughter of women who’ve seen too much and still choose softness.
Wolf’s mom—everyone calls her Mama Red—took one look at me and wrapped me in a hug that smelled like lavender and leather. I didn’t flinch. That surprised me more than anything.
She doesn’t ask questions. None of them do. The ol’ ladies just let me sit with them, listen to their stories, pass me coffee without comment when my hands shake. They talk about grandbabies and garden soil and the best way to get blood out of denim. I laugh sometimes. Real laughs. Not the kind I used to fake
