Weston’s POV
I return at dawn.
The house is quiet when I slip through the back door. Coffee pot cold. Dishes in the sink from a dinner I wasn't here to share. Evidence of life continuing without me.
Then I hear it.
Laughter. Raven's laugh, soft and genuine, drifting down the hallway. And beneath it, Theron's voice—low, intimate, the kind of tone you use with someone you've just woken up beside.
I walk toward the sound without meaning to. Stop in the doorway.
They're on the couch. Raven curled against Theron's side, his arm draped around her shoulders. They're both still in yesterday's clothes—rumpled, comfortable, the kind of comfortable that comes from spending the night together.
Theron sees me first. His expression shifts—not guilty, not apologetic. Just aware.
Raven follows his gaze. Her face goes pale.
"West—"
"Morning." I keep my voice flat. Neutral. "Coffee's not on. I'll make some."
I turn and walk away before either can respond.
Jealousy burns in my chest—hot, irrational, hypocritical. I pushed her toward Theron. Told myself she'd be better off with him. Walked away when she needed me to stay.
But seeing them together, wrapped in each other like they belong that way—it makes me want to put my fist through a wall.
I don't make coffee. I go outside instead.
Physical labor is easier than emotions. I find a fence post that doesn't need fixing and fix it anyway. Hammer nails until my arms ache. Until sweat soaks through my shirt. Until my mind stops spinning long enough to think clearly.
The hospital conversation replays on a loop.
Her tears. Her honesty. The way she held me while I fell apart for the first time in four years. The two heartbeats on the monitor—steady, strong, impossibly real.
She's carrying twins. She doesn't know who the father is. She's hiding from a controlling father who won't stop until he drags her back to a life she never wanted.
And what have I done?
Run. Again and again. Every time things get hard, every time feelings get real, I bolt like a spooked horse and leave everyone else to clean up the mess.
She doesn't need that. She needs a man, not a wounded boy who makes her chase him down while she's pregnant and terrified.
I set down the hammer.
Every instinct screams at me to stay out here. Hide in work. Let Theron handle the emotional stuff—he's better at it anyway. Safer that way. For everyone.
But Elena's voice echoes in my skull, clear as the day she said it: "Someday you're going to lose something because you couldn't find the words."
Not this time.
I find Raven on the porch, curled in a rocking chair, staring at nothing. She's wearing one of Theron's flannels—something twists in my gut—but I don't turn back.
"Can we talk?"
She startles, eyes going wide. "You're... here. Voluntarily."
"I'm trying something new. Showing up. Even when it's hard."
She stares at me like I've grown a second head. "Who are you and what have you done with Weston Callahan?"
"Funny." I settle into the chair beside her. "I deserve that."
Silence stretches between us. Not uncomfortable—just heavy with things unsaid.
"I saw you with him this morning," I finally manage. "Looking like you fit. Like you belonged together."
Her face pales. "Weston, I—"
"Let me finish." I hold up a hand. "Please. This is hard enough without interruptions."
She nods. Waits.
"My first instinct was to run. Tell myself you'd be happier with him. Use it as proof that I was right to keep my distance." I force myself to meet her eyes. "But that's bullshit. I pushed you toward Theron because I was scared. Not because it was best for you—because it was easier for me."
"West..."
"You're carrying two babies. You're dealing with a father who won't leave you alone. You're scared and overwhelmed and you need someone to be there." My voice roughens. "And instead of stepping up, I kept walking away. Making you chase me down while you're pregnant and terrified. That's not protection. That's cowardice."
Her eyes glisten. She doesn't speak.
"It hurt," I admit. "Seeing you with him this morning. But I don't have the right to be jealous when I keep being the one who leaves."
"He was there," she says softly. "When you left. He stayed."
"I know. Theron's better at this than me. Better at words. Better at showing up." I take a breath. "But I'm done running. I'm done using my past as an excuse to avoid my future."
I reach for her hand. She lets me take it.
"I told you I'd try. This is me trying. Showing up instead of hiding. Being the man you need instead of the ghost you have to keep chasing."
"You really mean that?"
"I'm here, aren't I? Terrified. Wanting to run. And staying anyway."
She laughs—wet, broken, beautiful. "That might be the most romantic thing you've ever said."
"Don't get used to it."
But something thaws between us. Some wall I built that's finally starting to crumble.
She rests her head on my shoulder. I force myself to relax into it. To accept the contact instead of flinching away.
"Thank you," she whispers. "For not giving up on me."
"Thank you for not letting me."
That night, I do something I haven't done in four years.
I dig Elena's guitar out of my closet.
It's dusty. Out of tune. The strings are probably shot. But when I carry it onto the porch and start adjusting the tuning pegs, muscle memory takes over. My fingers remember, even if my heart tried to forget.
Raven appears in the doorway. "You haven’t played a long time, what changed?"
"You mentioned that wanted to be a musician once. That first night. Thought it’s time to make dreams come true"
Something shifts in her expression. Softens. "You remember everything I’ve told you?"
I hold out the guitar. "You want to learn?"
She takes it awkwardly, holding it like it might bite. I move closer, adjust her grip on the neck.
"Fingers here. Thumb behind the neck, not wrapped around." My hand covers hers, positioning her fingers on the frets. The touch is electric. "Press down. Harder. The strings need to make contact with the fret."
She strums. The sound is discordant, buzzing.
"That's terrible," she says.
"That's a G chord. Mostly." I can't help the smile. "Try again."
We practice until the light fades. G, C, D—the holy trinity of beginner guitar. Her fingers fumble, find purchase, fumble again. She curses when strings buzz. Laughs when a chord finally rings clean.
"Not bad," I say finally. "For a Hollywood princess."
She grins. "High praise from a grumpy cowboy."
"Same time tomorrow?"
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." The words come easier than I expected. "Elena would have wanted this guitar played. Not rotting in a closet like some kind of shrine."
Raven traces the worn wood with gentle fingers. "Thank you, Weston. For sharing this with me."
I nod. Because what I'm feeling—this warmth, this terrifying hope, this sense that maybe I'm not as broken as I thought—is exactly what I swore I'd never feel again.
And it's already too late to stop it.
I watch her walk inside, Elena's guitar cradled against her chest like something precious. The screen door closes behind her with a soft click.
For four years, I've been living in a tomb of my own making. Preserving Elena's memory by refusing to let anyone else in. Punishing myself for crimes I couldn't have prevented.
But Raven—she's not asking me to forget Elena. She's asking me to live alongside the grief instead of drowning in it.
Maybe that's the difference. Maybe that's why this feels possible when nothing else has.
I stay on the porch long after the stars come out, thinking about second chances and guitar chords and the terrifying, exhilarating feeling of choosing hope over fear.