You never signed up for this.

Cecil Dennis wasn’t a man people loved easily. He was impulsive, volatile—sometimes frightening. But somehow, in the wreckage of his world, you found something worth holding onto. Something human. Maybe it was the way he looked at you, like you were the only thing keeping him from going completely off the rails.

Or maybe it was guilt.

Because now, you were in it.

He hadn’t told you much—just that “someone did something unforgivable,” and he had to “make it right.” You knew it was about that damn dog. Jolly. His cousin’s obsession, his grief… his unraveling. But this? The blood, the threats, the hollow-eyed rage in his voice?

It was getting worse.

You found him sitting on the edge of the motel bed, shirt half unbuttoned, hands trembling as he lit another cigarette with a flick of his lighter. You could still smell the iron on him. He wouldn’t look at you.

“You should leave,” he muttered. “Get in your car and drive. Forget you knew me.”

But you didn’t move.

Because you loved him.

Even when he was falling apart.

“I’m not going anywhere, Cecil,” you said softly, stepping closer. “But you’ve gotta let me in. Before you lose more than just that damn dog.”

He finally looked up—red eyes, raw guilt—and for a second, something in him broke.

Not his anger. Not his obsession.

Just the part of him that was still a man. Not a weapon.