Song: Shadow Preachers - Zella Day

The truck jostled as Luke pulled up to Neil Baker's home—the man himself sitting on the front steps with a sullen cloud over his head.

I unfastened my seatbelt, careful not to slip on the ice as I skated up the driveway, leaving Janelle to aid Luke. "He's in his room," Neil said as I climbed the stairs.

I slowed, glancing down. "He's in rough shape, Hadley. You might want to go easy."

Neil didn't look at me. I assumed it was because he was battling his own inner demons. Because, in some twisted way, I reminded him of his late wife.

I discarded my boots at the door and followed the familiar hall. Through the kitchen, past the living room to the last room at the end of the trailer.

Go easy. I wanted to scoff. I knew exactly how to handle Baker when he was like this. I'd done it a thousand times before. I bandaged every wound and nursed every cut. I didn't need Neil Baker to tell me what to do.

I found Baker seated atop his old bed in the dark. The window at his back slightly cracked.

I closed the door gently, entering the icebox. "Baker?"

He didn't look up—his head in his hands.

Concern and frustration collided in a battle of dominance, but nothing hurt more than seeing him like this. Spiralling into an abyss of regret and hopelessness, he dug for himself.

From what I could see, his knuckles were crusted with dried blood—the gashes much deeper than I anticipated. They were likely broken, too, but I couldn't be sure without looking.

The smell of beer hit my nose as I approached, closing the window before I placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Baker?"

When he lifted his head, I nearly shattered. Dallas had done a number on his face. I wasn't a nurse, but I'd seen my fair share of cuts and scrapes to know the gash above his eye needed stitches and possibly the cut on his lip.

I wondered how Dallas looked. I could tell by the cuts on Baker's knuckles he'd inflicted the same damage and likely looked just as bad.

I needed to look Baker over to be sure he wasn't bleeding anywhere else. "You need to change," I said, suggesting a shower.

Baker followed me without argument to the adjoined bathroom, peeling himself from the bed with no small amount of effort.

He was done fighting, the fire fueled by one too many beers and shots snubbed out, leaving nothing but a desolate wasteland of nothing. A husk of the man I knew and loved.

I turned on the light, starting the shower before returning my attention to him.

His face was empty, but I could feel the weight of guilt pressing down on his shoulders each time he glanced at me.

He hissed when I helped him out of his jersey, allowing me to assess the bruises and cuts along his shoulder and ribs.

Baker.

The bruises along his ribs were bad, but he managed his pants, allowing me a minute to undress. 

My sweater hit the floor, along with my concert tee, my sweats and my underwear. 

I guided him into the tub. Unable to let him face the dark alone. I was angry, but I had walked this road before and knew what turmoil awaited him.

Steam curled, fogging the bathroom. "Is that too hot?"

"It's fine," he answered, likely wanting the heat to soothe aching muscles.

I did my best to clean his cuts without inflicting too much pain as wisps of steam curled between us, gently brushing away the dried bits of blood. It soothed me as much as it did him, giving me something to do other than wait in his room with anxiousness.

I washed away the bar smell with the axe body wash his dad likely stocked in here, then his hair with the mint shampoo. Careful not to let the soap get inside his cuts. It had been years since Baker stayed the night, yet everything was new. From the fresh towels lined on the shelf to the toothbrushes and crest toothpaste still unopened on the counter.

Baker didn't move. Only when I needed him to. The water washed the suds away, and when I was finished, Baker took my jaw in his hands and carefully tipped my head. "It's not that bad," I assured him as he assessed the bruise on my neck.

A muscle in his jaw flickered—a small spark of anger replaced by sorrow. "I'm sorry," he rasped, repeatedly as if he blamed himself.

I felt his throat bob against my head when he embraced me.

I'm sorry, I heard it all the time after one of Baker's benders, but instead of unleashing my frustration like I used to—demanding answers as to why he felt the need to constantly endanger himself, I kept quiet. More so, I wouldn't weep.

Water fell from his head to mine when he set his brow on my own. His hard chest and torso pressed firmly against me.

I held him close, needing the comfort too. What Dallas had done wasn't Baker's fault. Not in the slightest. It was mine and I should've known better.

The water ran cold, and we were forced out.

A bag lay on Baker's bed. An indication of how much time had gone by. Janelle hadn't left, and my brothers wouldn't have known to pack an extra set of clothes for me, meaning someone likely told my mom.

I stood in my towel, going through the clothes. I handed Baker a pair of grey sweats before grabbing my own.

It was odd being at Neil's. If I recalled correctly, I never spent the night and didn't know how I felt about it, but when I asked Baker if he wanted to go home, he shook his head. Not ready to face my mother yet, even after I assured him she was more worried than angry.

I heard Neil, then Janelle, the former asking if she was comfortable. I knew she wouldn't leave me, and neither would Luke if his voice was any indication.

I dressed before slipping into bed next to Baker, propping pillows against the headboard so he could use me as one. I ran my fingers through his hair as he wrapped an arm around my waist, listening to whatever movie Luke and Janelle had chosen through the paper-thin walls.

The smell of mint permeated my nose, unlocking memories like an old iron key. Of Baker and I. Of who we were before everything went to shit.

An hour later—maybe two—when Baker had finally fallen asleep, I heard a knock at the door, then the sound of Nate's voice, followed by Austin and Johnny.

Neil welcomed them all. And even went outside to speak with my father, who I heard very briefly.

"You're so loved, Baker," I murmured, in the dark, unable to sleep. "If only you could see it."

His chest rose and fell in easy motions as I traced the lines of his tattoos, using the light from the streetlamps outside filtering through the blinds above his bed as a guiding light.

Exhaustion clung to my bones, but the anxiousness remained.

I was tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of rescuing. Just so fucking tired.

Sophia's words drifted into my thoughts. "He's not okay," she said, and she was right. Baker wasn't okay, and neither was I. I raced all over town, called everyone we knew, and trusted Nate when he said Baker wasn't at the bar.

I was angry with my brothers. Angry with myself. I could've prevented the entire thing if I just...

My lip quivered, and my face crumpled, but I held on so I wouldn't wake him.

I didn't understand what was going on inside of Baker's head, and it was hard. Hard trying to keep myself together while Baker broke. Hard having to save face after a night out. To pretend it didn't bother me when the anger wanted to explode.

The thought made me sad as I gazed at him—shaming myself.

I wanted Baker and I to do better. To be better. I held onto hope that maybe things could go back to the way they were before his accident. Before his mom.

Baker wasn't okay. He needed help, and I didn't know how to do that. I was getting in the way, my burning neck a reminder.

I sobbed quietly. Careful, the tears didn't fall onto him.

He only wanted to protect me.

As much as it pained me to admit, we couldn't do this anymore. I was rusted out and deteriorating, and as much as I loved Baker—as much as I wanted to be with him, I was growing to resent him like his mother had his father, and I didn't want that. I loved him more than anyone should be allowed to love another, and my being here was only getting in the way of his healing.

The sun was barely a sliver on the horizon when I slipped out from under him, snuck through the bedroom door, and tip-toed to the couch Janelle had fallen asleep on. "We need to go," I whispered when she woke.

She nodded, her eyes tired but full of strength and understanding I didn't deserve.

Together we stepped over the boys sleeping on the living room floor, gathering my things.

My heart pricked as I crouched next to the bed Baker slept on—the bag my mother had brought slung over my shoulder. "I love you," I murmured, my voice straining against the crack. I meant it. I loved him so much, but I couldn't do this again. It might be the coward's way out, but if I stayed...

I kissed his brow above the butterfly bandage Neil provided.

Wiping the tears, I hurried to the door where Janelle waited before my self-loathing had a chance to trick me into staying. Because if I stayed, I'd break, and we'd both be lost.

A/N: This chapter gives me all the feels 😭

I had another chapter planned here in Nate's POV but decided to leave it out. I'm curious, would seeing his POV interest any of you? Like as a bonus chapter when the book is finished?