Part Eight: A Scar That Never Heals

The warehouse had long been cleared. The blood scrubbed away. The chair, the ropes, the final echo of gunshots—gone.

But the ghost of Joe remained.

Steve sat alone in his apartment, the one he and Christian were supposed to share. The lights were off. The city beyond the windows flickered with neon and noise, but inside, it was silent. Too silent.

Joe's letter lay on the table.

He hadn't meant to find it. It was tucked inside an old jacket, buried deep in the pocket—one Steve hadn't touched since the days when Joe was just his right hand, not his tragedy.

He read it again.

"You won't read this. Or maybe you will. But if you are, it means I'm gone. I hope it was quick. I hope I didn't make a mess. I'm not good at goodbyes, Steve. I never was."

Steve pressed his fingers to his temple, breathing slow. The pain in his side hadn't fully healed. The bullet Joe put there ached like it carried grief.

"I didn't hate him, you know. Christian. I envied him. Because he saw the version of you I never got. The softness. The smile. The man who could love without apology. I only ever got the fire, the loyalty, the fight."

"But I loved you, Steve. God, I loved you so much it made me sick."

Steve's throat tightened.

He hadn't cried when Joe died.

He hadn't cried when they lowered the body into the dirt, when Christian clutched his hand and whispered, "I'm sorry," over and over again.

But now—now, in the quiet, with only the sound of his own breath and the ghost of Joe's words—he did.

The tears came hard. Messy. Angry.

Because Joe didn't have to die.

Because maybe Steve had known. Maybe he'd seen it in the way Joe looked at him, the way he hovered around Christian like a shadow begging to be seen.

Maybe if he'd said something—done something—Joe wouldn't have pulled that trigger.

"I'm sorry," Steve whispered, pressing his forehead to the letter. "I'm so fucking sorry."

But apologies were for the living.

And Joe—Joe was ash now. Ash, and memory, and pain that sat in Steve's ribs like a second bullet.

Christian found him an hour later, sitting on the floor, still holding the letter.

He didn't ask questions.

He just knelt beside him, wrapping his arms around Steve's shoulders.

And for a long time, they didn't speak.

Because sometimes, healing didn't come in words.

It came in silence.

It came in staying.

And this time, Christian stayed.