I hold him tighter.
He stirs, murmuring something in his sleep, and his hand reaches instinctively to find mine, his fingers curl around it like he knows I’m supposed to be there.
I bury my face in his hair and breathe him in. His scent grounds me. Settles the storm that’s been roaring in my skull since I watched that video.
I press my nose to his neck, then kiss the spot just above his ear, right where the damage was done, and I feel him shiver.
“Alex,” he mumbles, barely awake.
I press a kiss to his shoulder in response. I don’t answer aloud. He wouldn’t hear me since he’s not wearing his hearing aids.
And God, that alone… that truth carves straight through my ribs.
Now I know why he’s deaf.
That sound, the hit to his head.
The way he clutched his ears—desperate, and in pain.
That was it.
That was the moment.
I close my eyes and hold him tighter, pressing our joined hands firmly against his stomach. He murmurs something faint, unintelligible, but then his breathing softens, slow and even, until he slips back into sleep again.
I don’t move. Just stay there, wrapped around him, the silence humming in my ears.
And then, beneath the ache, something else rises.
Pride.
Fierce, full-bodied pride that climbs up my chest and wraps itself around my heart like armor.
He fought.
He didn’t just take it; he didn’t let Tim have his way with him. He stood his ground, trembling maybe, broken definitely, but he fought.
And he won.
He had the courage to raise that knife. Again. And again. And again.
I never expected to see him like that. Not Lucas, my soft-spoken sweetheart who flinches at sudden sounds and carries his pain quietly like it’s stitched into his spine.
But I should’ve known.
Because I have seen it, flashes of it, buried beneath all that gentleness.
That fire.
That heat in his eyes when he gets frustrated or stubborn, a glare in his eyes, and the tension on his shoulders when someone tries to cross a line.
He doesn’t see it in himself, or maybe he chooses not to.
But I do, he’s not just a survivor, he’s a fucking force.
And I will never stop being proud of him for it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper against his hair.
