Cruz:
The next few weeks passed in a blur.
Routine. Peaceful. Almost... normal.
If you could call anything in our world that.
Pickups and drop-offs. Bike runs and back-door deals. Avery clocking hours at the medic shack, patching up reckless idiots and keeping her cool even when s**t got messy. She fit in like she was born for it. Tough when she had to be, soft when she wanted to be—with me, mostly. And when she walked through that front door every evening, she was always in my shirt, hair tied up, asking me what I felt like eating. And somehow, dinner got made. We’d eat, we’d talk. Sometimes in silence. Sometimes with the TV humming low in the background.
She was f*****g radiant.
And I was—content.
That word didn’t come easy to me. Never had. But with her, there was this fragile ea
