Miracle's POV
Love. What a fucking joke.
I wanted to scream at my brother that love, to me, was just a pretty word for self-destruction. It was the ache in my skull, the hollowed-out feeling in my chest, the taste of betrayal that was still metallic on my tongue. Thanks to Steve Jackson, love was a weapon that had been used against me.
But I didn't say any of that. Instead, I met Xavier's worried gaze and lobbed a grenade of a question. "Would you die for me, Xavier?"
He flinched. "What?"
I would be confused, too. "If a bullet was heading for me. Would you step in front of it?"
He didn't even blink. "Yes."
Good. The world hadn't entirely gone to hell. He was still my lighthouse in this shitstorm, the only coordinates I had for home.
"Okay," I said, the word feeling final. "I believe you. And I'd do the same for you." I rubbed my palms together, the gesture doing nothing to ward off the cold seeping into my bones. "Could you tell Dad… tell him I'm…"
The words evaporated. Steve had stolen them all, leaving me with a vocabulary of hurt and silence.
"Tell him yourself when you get back," Xavier cut in, his voice firm. I could feel his frustration, a low hum through our twin connection. He hated my defeat. He hated that I was already writing my obituary.
He didn't get it. I wasn't being dramatic. I was being prepared. It's the military. People die
"This was all my idea," I stated, "If it goes bad, you tell our parents that. See you in six months, Xavier."
I turned and walked through the checkpoint before he could argue. No looking back.
I found the sign-up sheet. Xavier's advice echoed in my head: 'Just find the bus for ZIS… They'll go easy on you.'
I didn't. I found KSI.
My pen hovered. Then, with a surge of cold defiance, I signed my name next to KSI.
I found the designated bus and an isolated seat at the back. Leaning my head against the cool glass, I shut my eyes tightly. Maybe I'd wake up from this nightmare.
**
The bus smelled like sweat and diesel fuel. Perfect. It matched how I felt on the inside.
I found the most isolated seat in the back and slumped against the window.
I wanted to disappear. I hugged my backpack like a shield, glaring at anyone who even looked my way. Just leave me alone, I screamed inside my head. The whole world can just leave me the hell alone.
The bus jerked as it started to move, and I squeezed my eyes shut. I was so tired. The anger was the only thing keeping me awake.
I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, the bus was hitting a huge bump.
My head, which had been against the window, was thrown sideways. Instead of hitting hard plastic, it landed on something solid. Warm. A shoulder.
I froze. My eyes flew open.
I was leaning on the boy sitting next to me. I didn't even hear him sit down.
I jerked upright so fast my neck hurt.
"Don't touch me," I snapped, before he could even say a word. My voice was a low growl. I was a cornered animal.
He didn't flinch. He didn't apologize. He just turned his head, and a slow, lazy smile spread across his face. It was a trouble-making smile.
"Hey, you're the one who fell on me, darling" he said. His voice was like warm honey, but it had a sharp edge underneath. It was a challenge.
Darling. The word was a punch to the gut. Steve used to call me that when he was pretending to be sweet.
"Don't call me that," I hissed, scooting as far away as the seat would allow.
He just laughed, a low, quiet sound that seemed to vibrate through the seat. He stretched his arm out along the backrest, his fingers almost touching my shoulder.
He wasn't being modest. He was claiming his space. And maybe some of mine, too.
"I'm Hardy," he said, like that explained everything.
"I don't care," I shot back, staring straight ahead. But I could see him in my peripheral vision.
He was all relaxed confidence, like a panther taking a nap. He was handsome in a way that felt dangerous. His eyes watched everything, missing nothing.
"You talk in your sleep, you know," he said casually, as if we were old friends.
My blood ran cold. What did I say? Did I say Steve's name? The humiliation was a fresh wave of pain. I clenched my fists.
"Shut up," I whispered.
He leaned in a little closer. Not enough to touch me, but enough that I could feel his warmth. Enough that I had to fight the urge to look at him.
"Make me," he whispered back, his voice playful but his eyes dead serious.
And for the first time since the bathroom, since the shattered glass and the shattered me, I felt something other than pain. A spark. A dangerous, electric spark of defiance.
This boy wasn't safe. He was a storm. And part of me, the broken, angry part, wanted to see how hard he could rain.