Page 77 of His Holy Chaos

I clean Jude up, gentle now, wiping him with a tissue from the end table and stroking his hair while he comes down. Alfie is glassy-eyed and loose-limbed, sprawled on the cushions like a man who's just been unstrung.

For a long moment, no one speaks. The only sound is the ragged, satisfied breathing of three men who just survived a war and decided to celebrate by making a mess of themselves.

Eventually, I pull Jude up into my lap, his back to my chest, my arms wrapped tight around him. He melts into me, pliant and happy, his head lolling onto my shoulder. Alfie shifts over, pressing in on Jude's other side.

"You're both ridiculous," Alfie says, but there's no bite in it. Only affection. "And I love you for it."

Jude laughs. A little hiccup of sound. "I love you too, Alf. Even if your socks don't match."

"Shut up," Alfie says, and kisses the top of Jude's head.

They're safe. They're whole.

I pull the blanket over us, tuck them in, and let the world fade away.

Chapter 33. Jude

The bass hits. The neon washes over us. Daddy's hand is in mine. Bodies press together in various states of dress and undress.

Glynn spots us from behind the bar. Their ginger hair has a severe undercut now. I go to our corner, the one we always claim.

Alfie is the first thing I see, and the sight of him makes me so fucking happy. He's draped across the leather couch with one ankle crossed over his knee, a glass of something amber in his hand, and he looks relaxed. Really relaxed. For the first time in a long time.

Noa is there too. Small, loud, his dark curly hair forming its customary halo, his big black eyes bright. He's leaning against Henry.

Pierce is in the center of everything, because Pierce is always in the center of everything. His electric blue hair is freshly dyed. He's standing on a low table, one studded boot planted on the surface, the other on the couch arm, delivering what appears to be a dramatic monologue to a small crowd of laughing onlookers, his piercings catching the light with every gesture.

And Dave is here too. Ford's Dave, the Kitten. Standing at the bar's edge in conversation with Glynn, the rope-pattern tattoo peeking from his collar. He sees Ford and beams, waving.

Callum is here, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed, his dark locs framing his watchful face. A red dress tonight. He smiles at us.

Pierce launches himself off the table and almost tackles me.

"You disappeared," he accuses. "For two weeks! I had to torment strangers."

"I was busy!"

"Busy being domestic. I can smell it on you. You smell like… what is that? Baby powder and happiness." We laugh.

I look at them. All of them, scattered around this room. Alfie with his amber glass, here again after so long. Pierce commanding his audience. Noa, loud and small and incandescent against Henry's steady frame. Callum keeping his watchful post. Dave talking to Glynn at the bar, Glynn surveying the whole floor. And Ford. Ford beside me, his hand finding the small of my back.

I have my life back.

☐

The club entrance swings open, and I know who it is before I see him. I just have a feeling. But mostly it's because of how everyone starts looking at me, as if I'm made of glass and could break at any moment. We're all sitting close, talking shit, eating mozzarella sticks, and laughing. Then Glynn sees him and scowls. Pierce looks over his shoulder and gasps. Callum crosses the room fast to where we are. Alfie grabs my arm. Noa stops bouncing. And Ford frowns, confused.

I look.

Emmett walks in.

He is beautiful, as always. His dark hair is long and loose. His warm brown eyes scan the room. His nails are painted red, immaculate as ever.

Ford's hand tightens on my waist. His fingers press into my hip.

My breath catches. One beat.

I wait for the rest of it. The spiral, the vertigo, the familiar plummeting sensation. I wait for the old circuitry to fire, for the synapses that once flooded my chest at the sight of him to do their damage.