Chapter 2: Closet Confessions & Parole Violations
The sharp, official knock at the door cracked the morning air like a gunshot. Nova, wrapped in the scent of Garrett’s soap on his sheets, bolted upright as his low curse cut through the apartment. He was at the bedroom door in two strides, his hand on the frame, his face pale under the morning light. “Parole,” he hissed, the word dropping between them like a stone, and before she could speak, he’d steered her into the bathroom, the shower curtain rustling as it swallowed her whole. Through the thin wall, she heard the door open, and a voice, deep and devoid of warmth, said, “Routine check, Rhodes. You alone?”
Garrett’s voice was a flat, practiced calm. “Yeah. Just woke up.” The floorboards creaked as the men moved into the main room. Nova pressed herself against the cold tiles of the shower wall, the damp curtain sticking to her shoulder. She could smell the cheap citrus cleaner Garrett used and the lingering scent of his skin on the air.
“Place is clean. I’ll give you that.” The parole officer’s voice was closer now, probing. “Job’s steady?”
“At the shop downstairs. Like my paperwork says.”
“Uh-huh.” A drawer slid open in the kitchen, then shut. “And your associates? Keeping clear of the old crowd?”
Nova held her breath. She heard the faint rustle of Garrett’s shirt as he shifted. “There is no old crowd. I go to work. I come here.”
“Good.” The word was a threat. Footsteps approached the bathroom door. Nova’s heart hammered against her ribs. “Standard procedure. Need a sample.”
The doorknob turned. Light from the bedroom sliced into the tiny, dark space. Nova squeezed her eyes shut, making herself small behind the opaque vinyl curtain. She saw the blurred shape of Garrett, then the bulkier silhouette of the officer filling the doorway.
“Bottle’s on the sink,” the officer said, not entering. “Leave the door open.”
Garrett stepped inside. The small room felt airless. Nova could see the sharp line of his hip through the gap in the curtain as he reached for the plastic container. His fingers, just inches from her, were steady. He didn’t look at the shower.
The sound was intimate and brutal in the silent apartment. Nova focused on a crack in the grout, her face burning, a strange, protective fury mixing with her panic. This was his life now: this humiliation, this inspection, this complete lack of privacy. He finished, the cap cracking as he tightened it.
He handed the sample through the doorway. “Satisfied?”
“It’ll be tested. You know the drill.” The officer’s weight shifted away. “Keep your head down, Rhodes. I don’t want to see you again unless it’s scheduled.”
The front door opened and closed. The lock clicked into place. A profound silence flooded the apartment, broken only by the frantic pulse in Nova’s ears. She didn’t move.
Garrett stood at the sink, his head bowed, his knuckles white where they gripped the porcelain. He stared at his own reflection like it was a stranger.
He didn’t move for a full minute, the only sound the drip of the faucet into the sink. The morning light from the small window cut across the tense line of his shoulders, illuminating the fresh, angry ink she had touched just hours before. He finally turned, his movements deliberate, and leaned back against the sink, facing the shower curtain.
“You can come out,” he said. His voice was scraped raw, empty.
Nova pushed the curtain aside. The vinyl rings screeched on the rod. She stepped out, her socks damp from the shower floor, and the air between them was charged with a shared, degrading intimacy. She wanted to reach for him, to erase the hollow look in his eyes, but his posture was a wall.
“Garrett,” she started.
“Don’t.” He pushed off the sink and walked past her into the bedroom. He picked up his discarded t-shirt from the floor and yanked it over his head, covering the wolf. “You should go.”
“Like hell.” She followed him, the cheap wine from last night a sour memory in her throat. “He can’t treat you like that. Making you… with the door open.”
“He can.” Garrett snatched his keys from the counter. “He owns the checklist. I’m the box he ticks.” He finally looked at her, and the shame she saw there was worse than any anger. “This is what it is, Nova. This is the rebuild. It’s piss tests and surprise visits and having no right to shut a door.”
“So I’m just an ‘associate’ you need to keep clear of?” Her voice wavered, betraying the hurt.
“It’s safer.” He looked away, toward the window and the fire escape. “For you. For my paperwork. For all of it.”
The distance he was forcing felt physical, a shove to the chest. She remembered the frantic beat of his heart under her palm, the unspoken promise in the dark. This morning’s violation had stripped that away, leaving only the brittle shell of his rules. She crossed her arms, not in defiance, but to hold herself together.
“You don’t get to make that choice for me,” she said, quieter now.
“I just did.” He walked to the apartment door and opened it, a clear, brutal signal. The hum of the tattoo shop below drifted up the stairwell, a normalcy that felt miles away. “Go to work, Nova. I’ll be down later. We’ll pretend this didn’t happen.”
She moved toward the doorway, stopping inches from him. The citrus cleaner scent from the bathroom clung to him, covering the smell of his skin. She searched his face for the boy she’d sketched with on the floor of the shop, for the man who’d let her touch his nightmares.
“I’m not good at pretending,” she said.
He said nothing, just held the door, his jaw a tight line. She stepped into the hall, and the door clicked shut behind her, the sound final. She stood there, listening. She heard the scrape of a chair, a heavy sigh muffled by wood and plaster.
Then, a sound like fist meeting wall—a single, contained explosion of frustration.
She held her breath.