Broken Hands

63. Trusting Again

The last thing Grayson remembered about his mother was her quiet, almost defiant strength, a strength she wore like armor. Yet even that hadn't been enough. She had been a fleeting presence in his life, just six fragile years, and even then, much of her time was spent running Charlie's errands. To him, she had been the only light in a shadowed world. But even she wasn't perfect. She carried her own scars, ones he had only begun to understand after she was gone.

Grayson sat motionless, his mind spiraling through the mistakes he had made, each one chipping away at what little hope he had left. They weren't just mistakes—they were monumental failures, the kind that left bruises on the soul. He had no excuse for them, no real reason for why he let himself fall so far. How had he allowed the demons he couldn't face to take root, their lies worming into his mind until he believed he was nothing, until he acted like it?

His thoughts wandered to Russell—collected, gentle, controlled. Russell didn't leave destruction in his wake. He wasn't cruel to those trying to help him. He didn't ruin his own life, piece by piece, the Grayson way.

Grayson exhaled sharply, bitterness clawing at his chest. He could feel the damage he had done to himself—his body worn and battered from substances that dulled the pain but sharpened the consequences. The thought of what those choices might mean in the future sent a chill down his spine. He wished, desperately, that he could go back, turn to the first page of his life, and rewrite it all. But time had no mercy, and the damage was done.

He shut his eyes, his jaw trembling as he forced back the familiar burn of tears. No. He'd cried enough, wasted enough time drowning in his grief and guilt. This wasn't about freedom anymore—not the wild, reckless kind he had craved as a kid trapped in Charlie's suffocating apartment. Now, he understood. Freedom came with limits, and limits came with a price.

He thought of Alex and felt a fresh wave of shame. Alex, who had only ever tried to help, had been there when no one else was. And Grayson had repaid him with lies, manipulation, violence. How different was he from Charlie, really? That question lodged in his chest like a thorn. He had treated people—his therapist, Alex, everyone who cared—like tools, like objects to lash out at. And still, they stayed. They gave him a home, a chance. He clearly didn't deserve it.

Hera's words from long ago echoed in his mind. You don't belong here. Maybe she was right. Maybe the weight of his past, his mistakes, was too much for anyone to bear. And yet... if someone held a gun to his head and forced him to choose, he'd pick here, this home, these people. Every time. Because for all his mistakes, all his anger, he knew they were the reason he was still breathing.

"Please," he whispered, his voice barely audible, breaking under the weight of his desperation. "Please don't let them leave me. Please."

The words felt small, like the voice of his younger self, pleading into the darkness. For a moment, he could almost hear that little boy again, the one curled up on a cold floor in Charlie's apartment, wishing for someone, anyone, to stay.

The attic floor door creaked softly. He knew who it was before Alex's footsteps echoed softly against the wooden floorboards.

"Grayson," Alex's voice came from the shadows. It wasn't sharp or accusatory; it was calm, measured, and that scared Grayson more than yelling ever could.

"Here," Grayson mumbled, his voice barely carrying over the stillness.

Alex appeared, ducking slightly under the low beams as he stepped inside. He looked different in the dim light—less composed, more worn. He didn't sit immediately, just stood there, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on the photo album in Grayson's lap.