"Permission granted," I say, unable to keep the smile from my voice.
Maddox grins and steps carefully into the nest, settling the bowl in my hands before retreating to give me space. I look down at the ravioli, happy to see the cheap, canned kind that Dylan and I used to eat as kids when money was tight, and Mom was working double shifts. Comfort food in the truest sense.
Dylan is at the TV mounted on the opposite wall, fiddling with the controls. The screen lights up, bathing the room in flickering blue light. He scrolls through a few options: an action movie, a comedy, a baking show.
"What do you feel like?" he asks over his shoulder.
"Whatever you want is fine," I mumble around a bite of ravioli. The pasta is soft, almost mushy, and the sauce is overly sweet and artificial. It's perfect. It tastes like childhood and simpler times when the worst thing I had to worry about was finishing my homework before bed.
Dylan makes a selection and then turns toward my nest. He stops at the edge, waiting for me, and something about it makesmy eyes sting with fresh tears. "Permission to enter?" he asks quietly.
"Permission granted," I whisper.
Dylan climbs into the nest, settling on my right side. Maddox takes the left, sandwiching me between them. It's warm and close and exactly what I need. Dylan's arm comes around my shoulders again, and I let myself lean into him, my head resting against his shoulder. Maddox's presence on my other side is just as reassuring, a second wall of protection.
I dig into my cheesy noodles and sauce, the simple act of eating grounding me further in the present moment. "Thank you," I say softly, the words inadequate for everything I'm feeling.
Dylan looks down at me, and his expression softens. He presses another kiss to my forehead, lingering there for a few seconds. "I'm always available for my baby sister," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "Always."
Always. No matter what. No matter how broken I am, how scared, how much of a burden. He'll be here.
Amelia
I slowly blink myself awake, my eyelids heavy as the fairy lights above my nest blur and come into focus, their warm glow making little halos in my vision. I'm not surprised to find I fell asleep. The exhaustion that comes with constant fear is bone-deep, pulling me under at the strangest times, leaving me disoriented and groggy when I surface again.
But my heart is hammering against my ribs, hard enough that I can feel it in my throat. My chest heaves as I drag in breath after breath, my lungs burning like I've been running.Sweat dampens my hairline, my neck, and the space between my shoulder blades, my shirt clinging to my skin, only adding to the discomfort.
The nightmare I just woke from still clings to me, fragments of it flashing behind my eyes even as I try to blink them away.
An open field stretched endlessly in every direction, tall grass swaying in a wind I couldn't feel. The sky above was that strange twilight color, not quite day and not quite night. I was alone, spinning in circles, trying to figure out where I was, how I'd gotten there. My phone was dead. No landmarks, no roads, no signs of civilization. Just grass and sky and the growing certainty that no one was coming for me.
That specific scenario never happened, not exactly. But similar things did. Too many similar things.
I remember being happy with Vincent one moment, laughing at something he'd said, feeling almost normal. Then his expression would shift, something dark sliding behind his eyes, and everything would change in an instant.
He'd pull the car over on some back road and tell me to get out. Or he'd leave me at a store while he drove away, watching in the rearview mirror as I ran after him, panicking. Teaching me a lesson, he'd call it later, when he came back. Teaching me not to take him for granted, not to disrespect him, not to do whatever imaginary thing he'd decided I'd done wrong.
The fear in those moments was primal. The absolute certainty that I was going to be left behind, or abandoned, and that no one would find me or care that I was gone, was always on my mind. The worst was that I started feeling like I deserved it somehow.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memories and focus on something else. Like my empty nest.
Maddox and Dylan are gone. The TV across the room is dark, no longer playing the animated movie we'd put on. The house isquiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen and the distant sound of traffic outside.
I scramble for my phone as I dig through the blankets and pillows until my fingers close around the familiar shape. The screen lights up when I tap it, making me squint against the brightness.
7:14 PM.
I stare at the numbers, confused. We'd started the movie around five, I think. Or was it six? My brain feels fuzzy. Did I sleep for hours or just minutes? I don’t even remember falling asleep.
My days are all confused lately, my sleeping schedule completely upended. I'll be exhausted at noon and wide awake at three in the morning. I'll sleep for twelve hours straight and still wake up tired, or I'll be unable to sleep at all despite feeling like I need to pass out.
The doctor I saw last week said it was normal after a traumatic experience, that my body was still in survival mode, my brain unable to distinguish between real threats and imagined ones. She'd said it so kindly, too, like the fact that I'm this messed up is understandable and not something to be ashamed of.
I'm still working on believing that.
Blowing out a heavy breath, I sit up a little, struggling to get my bearings. I groan as I shift, my muscles protesting, my gaze dropping to the fading bruise on my wrist, a visible reminder of the horrors I left.
I trace the edges of it with my right hand. The bruise wraps around my wrist in the clear shape of fingers, a handprint that tells a story I don't want to remember.
