"Then let's stay," I whispered back.
And we did. We stood there in the dim light, his heartbeat gradually slowing against my cheek, my hands making small circles on his back. I lost track of how many minutes had passed. His breathing deepened, evened out. The rigid set of his shoulders softened incrementally, like ice melting in the sun.
But when I finally pulled back enough to look up at his face, I could see that edge was still there in his eyes—a tightness at the corners, a wariness that hadn't quite released its hold. The stress had eased, but it hadn't disappeared. It was still lurking, still waiting.
Whatever he was carrying, it wasn't something that could be hugged away.
Later that night, I awoke to the sound of him thrashing in his sleep.
His breath was ragged, his face twisted in pain. Heart pounding, I leaned over the bed to where he was lying on the floor. Gently, I shook his shoulder. “Topher, wake up.”
His eyes flew open, wide with panic, and he sucked in a sharp breath, trying to orient himself. Without thinking, I slid to the floor, reaching for him. My arms encircled as much of his broad, tense frame as I could, pulling him close.
“It’s okay,” I whispered, pressing against him. “You’re okay.”
He leaned into me, his body trembling as he struggled to steady his breath. After a moment, his voice broke the silence, low and strained. “It’s just like the nightmare I used to have when I was younger.”
I didn’t say anything at first. I just held him, feeling his tension slowly ease under the warmth of my arms. His vulnerability stirred something profound inside me, something protective.
When he spoke, I could feel the rumble of his voice against my neck. “When I was younger, we didn’t have enough to eat. My mom was so depressed, and I couldn’t do anything about it. I couldn’t take care of her.” He took a shaky breath. “I still have that nightmare. That I can’t take care of the people who are important in my life.”
He looked down, ashamed, and it broke my heart to see him like that. He wasn’t the invincible billionaire I’d gotten to know; he was a scared kid, terrified of losing the one person who meant everything to him. It hit me then how much he carried on his shoulders, how much of himself he buried beneath the weight of his responsibilities.
Topher’s shoulders sagged, and he stared off into the distance for a moment, like he was trying to figure out how to put something into words. Finally, he spoke, his voice low.
“You know why I don’t come back here? To New Orleans? To see my mom?” A bitter laugh escaped. “I always say it’s because I’m busy with work, and there’s too much going on. But that’s not the truth.”
I stayed quiet, sensing that whatever he was about to say was something he’d been holding onto for a long time.
“The real reason is that I was afraid that the second I walked through the door, I would turn right back into that scared kid again. The one who couldn’t fix anything, who didn’t know how to take care of his mom. The kid who was terrified of everything falling apart.”
He looked down at his hands, his jaw tight. “I thought if I stayed away, kept building my life from a distance, maybe I could leave that kid behind. Pretend I’d grown past all that. And for a while, I believed it. I really did. I’d convinced myself that staying away was helping me stay strong. That I was fine.”
He exhaled, shaking his head. “But then this nightmare… It’s like the past isn’t done with me yet. I’ve built all this success, but now I’m right back there again.”
The pain in his voice tugged at my heartstrings, and I could see how much he’d been holding in, how much of himself he’d wrapped up in this illusion of control. I moved closer, my hand finding his arm, grounding him.
“You’re not that child anymore,” I said gently. “You can stop running.”
He met my gaze, his eyes raw with emotion, and I could see the conflict still playing out there. Then he added, almost too quietly for me to hear, “And I’m scared of failing you.”
His words hit me like a jolt, my heart skipping a beat. I pulled back slightly, searching his face. “You won’t.” My voice was barely above a whisper as I tried to make sense of what he meant. “You won’t fail me.”
As I held him, the tension slowly eased from his body, his breathing becoming steadier, the panic subsiding. My presence seemed to ground him, calming the storm that had gripped him just moments ago.
Neither of us spoke. We just lay in the quiet, the weight of everything hanging between us. Then, after a long silence, he looked at me, his voice low and raw. “Will you hold me while I fall asleep?”
But letting him in felt like stepping onto dangerous ground. Relying on him, even just for tonight, would make everything feel too real, too raw. And the risk? It was just too high. Because his worst nightmare—failing someone who depended on him—was my worst nightmare, too. His failing me when I needed him the most.
“Of course,” I said quietly, willing my voice to stay steady. I figured there was no harm in holding him while he fell asleep, and then I would get back into bed. As long as I didn’t sleep next to him, I could protect my heart.
He nodded, and I lay beside him, pulling him into my arms. His makeshift bed on the floor reallywascomfortable.
His body relaxed against mine. With each passing moment, I felt him letting go of the weight he had been carrying for so long.
“You’re safe,” I murmured, my fingers gently combing through his hair.
He sighed, the sound soft and tired, and there was peace in it. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice so quiet I barely heard it.
