Chapter 165: Jake
We get the propane camping stove going on the coffee table, flames small and steady under two dented pots of canned soup. Water boils in one of the kettles nearby, and the smell of broth slowly overtakes the storm—comforting, grounding. In the candlelight, everyone looks a little less wrecked. Still soaked, still pale, but no longer shaking.
I pass out mugs and bowls, and there's this collective exhale around the room.
“It’s not gourmet,” I say, handing off the last one, “but it’s hot and salty, and nobody’s allowed to complain.”
Liam slurps and groans in appreciation. “Best thing I’ve ever had.”
Madeline’s curled up in one of Reid’s shirts, practically swimming in it. She clutches her tea with both hands, face half hidden by the collar. When she meets my eyes, she tries for a smile.
Reid speaks up. “Alright, sleeping arrangements.”
He stands near the couch, nodding toward it. “This’ll stay warm. It’s big, solid. Fits at least four.”
“If not,” I add, “we’ve got three rooms upstairs. No heat, but a mountain of comforters. You’ll be warm if you layer.”
Sloane doesn’t miss a beat. “Put Madeline up there. So she doesn’t clock anyone else in the face tonight.”
It’s a jab, but something about the way she says it makes the whole room tighten.
Madeline blinks, stunned. She sets her tea down slowly. “Whatever,” she says, voice even, “if that makes everyone more comfortable.”
Not scared. Just tired. Like she's too exhausted to take more hits.
Before I can say anything, Finn shakes his head. “Nope, not me. I’m staying down here.”
“Same,” Liam says. “I’m not leaving this couch.”
Charlie hesitates, then shrugs. “Yeah, I’ll stay down too.”
Sloane leans back and folds her arms, saying nothing.
“Alright,” Reid says, already moving, “I’ll get blankets and pillows.”
He disappears upstairs while I check in on the others. “Anyone need anything else? Extra socks, dry clothes?”
Finn and Liam shake their heads. Charlie’s halfway through sipping tea and already buried in a comforter.
Reid returns with an armload of pillows and a pile of flannel. As we toss them down on the couch, I glance at Madeline. She hasn’t moved. She looks small in all that fabric, but her shoulders are squared now. More solid.
Reid steps closer and looks at her carefully. “You stay with us. We still need to check those ribs.”
She gives a small nod. No protest.
“Alright,” I say to the room, “we’ve got an iPad with a few movies downloaded. In case the storm noise gets to be too much.”
Charlie’s already lunging for it. “Please let there be something trashy.”
“There’s always something trashy,” I mutter, and that gets a few chuckles.
As the group melts into blankets and sarcastic movie debates, I glance one last time toward Madeline before heading down the hall with her and Reid.
And I don’t miss it—Charlie’s watching her. Not in judgment. In quiet knowing.
Something happened tonight that we still don’t fully understand.
We climb the stairs in silence, one of our battery-powered lamps lighting the way. The house creaks and groans around us, old wood shivering under the weight of the storm. Each step up muffles the sounds of the living room below—Charlie’s laughter, Liam’s teasing, the soft swell of a movie playing. Up here, it’s just the three of us and the roar of wind slamming against the windows.
Reid pushes open the bathroom door and sets the lamp down on the counter. The space floods with a warm yellow glow, making the shadows softer, gentler. She stands there awkwardly as we both move around her, opening drawers, pulling out the first aid kit.
The second we shine the light on her, I feel something ugly claw its way up my throat.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
“Jesus, Mads,” Reid echoes beside me, voice cold and furious.
Her hands are torn up—scratches, nicks, little trails of blood dried and fresh. Same thing on her neck. Small injuries, technically. Nothing serious. But it looks wrong on her. Violent.
Reid’s crouched in front of her, brows drawn tight, jaw clenched. I move closer and bring the lamp in, and she looks down at her palms like she’s only now seeing the damage.
“How did this happen?” Reid asks, his voice a thread away from losing control.
“There was… stuff flying,” she says. “Branches. I think maybe gravel. I don’t know. I fell a couple times.”
A couple times.
My grip on the lamp tightens. I want to go back in time and throw my body in front of every branch, every gust of wind. I want to make whoever’s responsible for this feel what I’m feeling right now. But there’s no enemy here. No fight to win.
Just her, sitting in front of us like she’s not the most precious thing we’ve got.
Reid’s thumb brushes gently under a cut on her neck and she flinches—but not from pain. No. It’s something else. I feel it too, this low thrum under my ribs.
“I’m fine,” she says quietly. “It doesn’t even hurt.”
She’s between us, hands open like an offering, like a surrender. And I hate that this storm got to her. That she’s sitting here with blood on her skin and we weren’t there to stop it.
I reach into the kit, grab antiseptic wipes and ointment, and force myself to move carefully. No rushing. No snapping. I clean the cuts on her hands first. She hisses once, maybe twice, but doesn’t pull away. Reid steadies her wrists, keeps her still with a hand just light enough not to bruise.
“We should’ve had you here from the start,” I murmur.
Reid doesn’t say anything, but his silence is agreement. Heavy. Burning.
We’re used to bruises, cuts, broken knuckles from fights or accidents on the water. But seeing them on her? It’s different. It’s fucking unbearable.
“Almost done,” I say, even though I don’t want to be. I want to keep holding her hands, to wrap her in something warm, to make sure she never looks like this again.
I just want her safe.
And close.
Always.