Page 112 of Grizz

He nods once and all the puzzle pieces of my life slide into place, locking tight.

Daisy isn’t a possibility or an accident.She’s the one person who saw me clearly—and chose to walk away when I told her to.

Now the pain crushing my chest isn’t whether I love her.It’s whether I’m brave enough to stop history from repeating itself before fear finishes the job for me.

Chapter 30

Daisy

It’stwointhemorning and I’ve given up pretending sleep is coming.

I lie on my back in the bedroom that used to be mine—technically the guest room now—staring at the faint glow of the ceiling fan as it spins overhead.Somewhere along the way, my parents replaced the narrow twin with a real bed, updated the dresser, and swapped out my posters for neutral art meant to offend no one.

And still, the room carries echoes of who I used to be.

The mattress is comfortable.Familiar, even.I’ve slept here plenty of times over the years—holidays, long weekends, moments when I needed grounding—but tonight, nothing settles.No matter how I turn or pull the covers tighter, my body refuses to rest.

Posters once lined the walls and textbooks were stacked in uneven towers and I used to fall asleep believing the world would eventually make sense if I just worked hard enough.

Now the room feels akin to a museum of a former version of myself.Safe.And yet completely foreign.

I turn onto my side, the sheets whispering softly.A muffled sound breaks through the quiet.

Scratching.

I turn onto my side just as Roscoe jostles on the rug beside my bed, nails rasping lightly against the door.He lets out a low, impatient huff—the sound he makes when he needs to go out.

“Come on, Roscoe,” I murmur, pushing myself upright.

I sigh and push myself out of bed, slipping on my robe and old slippers—the ones my mom never threw out, threadbare but loyal.The house is quiet as I ease the door open and follow Roscoe down the stairs, careful not to make a sound.

Everyone else is asleep.The kind of deep holiday sleep that comes from full dinners and long conversations.

Roscoe waits impatiently at the front door, tail giving a single, hopeful wag.

“Okay, okay,” I whisper.“I’m coming.”

Roscoe is jumping straight up on his hind legs when I reach the entryway, front paws slapping against the window beside the door, tail going wild.His whole body vibrates with excitement and urgency.

“What is it?”I ask, kneeling and scratching behind his ears, trying to calm him.“What do you see?”

He doesn’t stop.Frowning, I lean closer, following his gaze, and glance out the window.

There he is.

Grizz.

He’s curled into himself on the rocking chair on my parents’ front porch, jacket pulled tight around his broad frame, head tipped slightly to the side like sleep claimed him before he could fight it.One long leg is stretched awkwardly, his hands folded together in his lap.

Grizz is here.

On my parents’ porch.

Asleep.

My breath leaves my body in a silent rush and my eyes roam all over him, unable to believe what I’m seeing.

The porch light casts a soft glow over him, illuminating the familiar angles of his face—so out of place here, and yet impossibly real.