38. Brayden

Chapter thirty-eight

Brayden

T he hours and minutes blur together, a misty haze as I lie here, clutching the quilt that still carries Bexley's scent. Sometimes, I shift the fabric and with each movement, his soul slips away. But I scrape at the edges, desperate to find my connection to him again. It won't last forever, I know that, but for now, I have his clothes too. They're my lifeline, a fragile thread that binds me to him. As long as I can smell him, he's still here.

Bohdi sits on the stool, silent and solid. A quiet assurance that I'm not alone. I don't want him to leave. Just having him here, someone who knows the jagged edges of my grief, makes breathing a fraction easier. The room holds its breath, and I stare at the floor, lost in my thoughts.

Then Kal and Tray walk in. I don't care about their judgment, their raised eyebrows. Right now, it's all noise. My focus remains fixed on the wall beside my bed, as if I can etch Bexley's memory into the paint. I cling to it, to him, as if my life depends on it. Because maybe, in some way, it does.

"Bray." A soft voice reaches me from behind, and I snap around. "Don't touch!" I shout, my desperation echoing. Tray stands frozen, bloodshot eyes wide, hands raised in surrender.

"Please," I beg, a tear escaping. "Don't touch the quilt."

Tray nods, understanding. "I know," he says. "Sir said." His gaze flickers toward the door, a fleeting glance.

"Where is Bohdi?" I ask, my voice trembling. Tray inhales deeply, nostrils flaring.

"Gone home. Kal's making sure of it. Forget about him. Focus on you, Bray. Me and Kal, we've got you, always."

"Why is Kal making sure Bohdi goes home?"

"Forget about him," Tray insists, his voice edged with something I can't quite place. I frown up at him, seeking answers.

"What's happened?" I press, panic clawing at my throat.

"Kal put two and two together when we got here," Tray explains. "It clicked when I called Mr. Stiles ‘sir.'" He winces, and I sit up in bed, scanning the room.

"What is Kal doing?" My heart races.

"You know he protects you, Bray," Tray says. "Give it a few days, and then you can talk to me and Kal about whatever." He gestures toward me and then the door. "Right now, you need to focus on you."

Exhaustion pulls me back down, and I bury my nose in the quilt, inhaling deeply. Bexley's scent fills my lungs and I relax into it, forgetting about everything else around me, Boh, Tray and Kal. I breathe in my twin, allowing his smell to drift me off to sleep.

My eyes flutter open, heart racing, and for a fleeting moment, I cling to the hope that it was all a dream. But the weight of pain in my clenched fists shatters that fragile illusion. It wasn't a dream; it was painfully real. Waves of agony crash over me once more, threatening to drown me.

I sit up, gasping for air, and lean over the edge of the bed, retching until my stomach is empty. The room spins, and I glimpse Kal and Tray standing there, their eyes wide with concern, their faces outlined with exhaustion. Kal approaches, a glass of water in his trembling hands. My dry throat aches for it. I gulp it down in one desperate swallow, and he refills the glass from a bottle, passing it to me.

His gaze locks onto mine, and he whispers my name, so softly it's almost a prayer. "Bray," he says, and the wall inside me crumbles further. Tray steps forward, holding out a handful of Nerds Ropes—the sweet, sticky candies we used to share. My trembling fingers reach for them, and as I tear off the first piece, tears cascade down my cheeks. The taste floods my senses, memories crashing like waves, and I hurl the candies against the wall, each impact echoing the ache in my chest.

"They taste like shit!" I scream. "They taste bland. They're fucking shit. I hate them," I cry, curling myself back into the pain that drowns me.