Sleep doesn't come. Not really.
It comes in restless, fractured fragments. Every time I drift off, I jerk awake, my chest tightening as my mind replays the image of Stitch digging metal out of Bishop’s leg on the living room sofa.
By six in the morning, the heavy gray light of dawn fills the bedroom, washing out the shadows and leaving everything in stark, unforgiving clarity.
Locke is awake beside me. He’s still lying on his back, still staring silently at the ceiling, one hand resting flat over his ribs, the other behind his head. He hasn't touched me all night. We stayed on our respective sides of the king mattress, separated by an ocean of unsaid words, club protocol, and wounded pride.
I roll out of bed, the soles of my feet hitting the cold hardwood floor. My body aches like I’ve
