Damon
The house was too quiet.
It was late night. Wren is probably asleep by now.
I stood in the kitchen, staring at the untouched bottle of whiskey on the counter, my fingers twitching with the need to pour a glass or throw it against the wall.
Liam was asleep upstairs, his small body curled under the blankets, his bandaged wrist resting on the pillow. The doctor had assured us it was a minor fracture. He’ll heal fast. Kids are resilient.
But I wasn’t a kid. And I wasn’t resilient.
Not when it came to him.
Not when it came to her.
A soft creak on the stairs made me tense. I didn’t need to turn around to know it was Wren. I could feel her the way the air shifted when she entered a room, the quiet rhythm of her breathing, the faint scent of vanilla and salt from her tears.
