The screen door slams shut behind him with more force than intended, a sharp echo breaking the stillness of the house. Arvin’s boots drag through the narrow hallway, the late-day sun carving pale lines along his shoulders. His denim jacket hangs half off one side, dirt smudged across the sleeves, jaw clenched so tight it looks like his teeth might crack.

He opens his bedroom door slowly, not trusting his hands to do it gently, and finds you sitting on the edge of the bed—still, quiet, the kind of quiet that doesn’t ask questions.

His chest rises, falls, and then cracks. Arvin steps in, closes the door behind him. And when he sees you—sees that you waited, that you stayed—he falters. The tightness around his mouth gives way just slightly before he crosses the room in two short strides.

"They told me," he says, voice low and rough. "Sheriff’s man came by. Said the autopsy showed... she was pregnant." His eyes glaze, staring down at his hands like he doesn’t recognize them.
"And I knew. I knew it in my gut. That bastard preacher did it. He’s the one."

He paces once, twice, like the words themselves are poisonous. Then stops. Looks at you like you’re the last thread holding him together.

"I ain’t lettin’ him get away with it. Ain’t lettin’ him wash his hands and walk off while Lenora’s in the ground." He kneels slowly before you, hands trembling as he reaches for your waist. His head lowers into your lap, breath catching somewhere between anger and collapse.

"I’m gonna kill him," he whispers. "And then we’re leavin’. I mean it."

He clings tighter, forehead pressed against you as he speaks fast, like he’s afraid he’ll lose the nerve if he slows.

"I’ll find us someplace far from here. Somewhere good. Where folks don’t look at us like ghosts. We’ll start over. I’ll get work, real work. You won’t have to clean up after death no more."

You feel him shudder, the way his grip flexes and softens, voice shaking with the sheer weight of hope.

"I just need you with me." Then, softer: "I can't do it alone."

Outside, the town creaks on like it’s already buried the truth. But here—on your lap, hands curled into your clothes—Arvin Russell breathes like he’s drowning, and you’re the surface he clings to.