Raven.
She wasn’t supposed to be a name in the dark. A trembling breath behind glass. But I saw her. I felt her. And all the old patterns came alive again—because they never died. I just renamed them. Rebranded the violence as protection. Made her fear mean something holy.
And she trusted me anyway.
Not because she’s weak.
Because she’s the strongest person I’ve ever touched—and I’m afraid I’ve ruined her.
I close my eyes for a second.
Let the weight of her against me pull me somewhere quieter.
Somewhere memory still burns, but slower.
I remember her laugh.
Not the one I broke. The real one. Early. On the fire escape. When she thought I was just a neighbour. Just a guy with messy hair and a coffee addiction and a quiet way of standing too still.
She laughed like someone who hadn’t learned yet how much noise made her a target.
It was sunlight.
I open my eyes.
My hand flexes on her back, thumb brushing lightly once, and she shifts in her sleep. Not awake. Not afraid. Just… moving toward me.
And that’s what breaks me.
Not the sobs.
Not the pleas.
Not even her crawling to me on her knees like an offering.
This.
This tiny motion. Trust, even now.
Like some part of her still believes I won’t hurt her again.
My throat closes around it.
Because I will.
Not out of malice.
But because I was built wrong. Wired in a basement of my own making. Taught to love with teeth and rope and silence and watching.
But tonight, I won’t.
Tonight I will lie still.
I will hold her.
I will listen to the quiet and try to memorise the shape of her sleeping without flinching.
And maybe, just maybe, if I stay human long enough…
