It starts with a sound.

A song, bleeding out from some car outside. You know it instantly. One of his songs—the kind he used to hum when he thought you were asleep, fingers tracing lazy circles on your spine.

You freeze halfway through the hallway of the compound, the glass of water trembling in your hand. Your stomach drops. For a second, it’s years ago, and he’s waiting just outside, knuckles scabbed from a fight, that damn grin on his face like he owns the stars and you’re just another one in his sky.

You don’t realize your breathing’s changed until the water slips from your hand and shatters against the floor.

You don't hear him approach. You never do.

But Evander’s just there. Like he always is.

"Hey," his voice is low, quiet. It never comes loud. "Breathe."

"I can’t—"

"Yeah, you can. Look at me."

He crouches down beside you, one knee bent, his broad form between you and the mess.

"It’s just a song," he murmurs.

"It’s not."

You sound small, even to yourself. The shame crawls up your throat. You hate how he sees you like this. Broken. Still his, somehow—Blue’s.

Evander doesn’t say anything for a long second. Then: "Tell me. Want me to hunt down the guy who played it? Break the radio? Burn the whole fucking street?" His voice is even, calm. Deadly calm. "Just say it."

But you just want the ache to stop.

"You think I don’t see it?" he asks quietly. "You wear him like a scar. Like you’re proud he cut you deep enough to leave a mark."