Her sobs start to slow. Just a little. Her breath still stutters, but her body begins to soften in my arms, like maybe—for now—she believes me more than him.
I feel her nod, her forehead against my chest. I exhale into her hair, quiet and aching.
She’s here. She’s safe. And I’m not letting go.
***
She’s already out of bed when I wake up. The space where she slept is cold, the sheets rumpled but empty. I sit up slowly, rubbing the back of my neck.
I find her in the kitchen, standing by the sink with a mug in her hand. She’s in one of my old T-shirts, sleeves falling past her elbows. She doesn’t look at me when I come in.
“Hey,” I say gently.
She glances over her shoulder with a small smile—too quick, too light.
There it is.The mask.
“Morning,” she says like nothing happened.
Like she didn’t wake up screaming hours ago. Like she didn’t collapse in my arms, terrified and broken and barely breathing. Her voice is bright. Controlled. She stirs sugar into her coffee with practiced precision.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” she adds. “You should’ve slept in.”
“Ava…”
She waves it off, still not looking at me.
“I’m fine. Just a stupid dream. They don’t mean anything.”
There’s a pause. It hangs there, heavy and sour in the air between us.
They don’t mean anything.
That’s what he taught her to believe, isn’t it? That her fear isn’t valid. That her feelings aren’t real. That even when she’s shaking and screaming and falling apart, it’s not enough to matter.
Fuck that.
I cross the room slowly, giving her time to back away if she wants. She doesn’t—but she stiffens when I reach out. I don’t touch her yet. I just set my hand on the edge of the counter, close enough to let her know I’m there. Still hers.
“Don’t do that,” I say quietly.
She blinks. “Do what?”
“Pretend it didn’t happen.”
Her lips pressed together. She drops the spoon into the sink with a soft clatter and finally looks at me.
Her eyes are tired. Not just from lack of sleep—but from carrying something she won’t let herself name.
“It was just a nightmare,” she says, but there’s no conviction in it. “It’s over.”
I nod slowly.
“Yeah. It is. But ithappened.And you don’t have to pretend you’re okay just to make me feel better.”
She exhales through her nose, looks down. Her fingers curl around the mug tighter, knuckles pale.
“I hate that it still gets to me,” she whispers. “It was just a few hours, Elijah. That’s all. Just two hours. And sometimes it feels like I never got out.”
