I hit his chest with my fists. Not hard enough to hurt. Just needing to make contact. To expel this energy building inside me.
And the moment one fist collides with his chest, I can't stop. It's the first real touch I've had since that cell. And even in its violence, I crave it, even as I loath myself for it.
"I hate this!" Each word is punctuated by my hands against his chest. "I hate feeling like this! I hate that I can't let you touch me! I hate that I'm broken and scared and I can't even?—"
My voice breaks. The hits become weaker. Less controlled.
"I want you to hold me," I sob. "I want to let you hold me but I can't. My body won't let me. And I don't know how to fix it. I don't know how to get back to?—"
I'm gasping now. Crying so hard I can barely breathe.
And Marco doesn't pull away. Doesn't try to grab me or restrain me.
He just stands there. Taking it. Letting me get it out.
"I want to be normal again," I whisper. "I want to let you touch me. Want to not flinch every time someone moves too fast. Want to sleep through the night without waking up terrified."
My legs give out. I collapse against him—not intentionally, just because I can't hold myself up anymore.
And Marco catches me.
His arms wrap around me carefully. Giving me a chance to pull away. To tell him no.
But I don't.
I let him hold me. For the first time since he found me in that cell, I let him hold me.
The panic doesn't come. The urge to flinch away doesn't come. It's just... Marco. Solid and warm and safe.
I sob into his chest, my hands clutching his shirt. Five days of holding it together. Five days of pretending I'm fine. It all comes out in broken gasps and tears that won't stop.
"I've got you," he murmurs into my hair. "I've got you, baby."
"I'm sorry," I hiccup. "I'm so sorry?—"
"Shh. You have nothing to apologize for."
"I hit you?—"
"I can take it. Hit me as much as you need to."
"I'm broken, Marco. They broke me and I don't know how to?—"
"You're not broken." His voice is fierce. Certain. "You're hurting. There's a difference."
"But what if I can't—what if this is who I am now?—"
"Then I love who you are now." The words are soft. Final. "I love you, Elena. However long this takes. Whatever healing looks like. I love you."
I freeze. Pull back just enough to see his face.
He means it. I can see it in his eyes.
"You love me," I repeat. Not a question. Just trying to make the words real.
"I love you. I'm in love with you. Have been for a while now." His hand comes up to cup my face—gentle, asking permission. When I don't pull away, he wipes my tears with his thumb. "Andnothing that happened changes that. Nothing they did to you could ever change that."
Fresh tears spill over. But these feel different. Less like despair and more like... hope, maybe. Or relief.
