This feels like finally being able to stop fighting. Like sharing the weight instead of carrying it alone.
Bruce used to hold me and I'd count seconds until he let go. Stay vigilant against the moment affection turned to control.
Holden holds me and breathing gets easier. The knot in my chest loosens.
"Sorry. I don't usually fall apart like this."
"You're not falling apart." His hand moves in slow circles on my back, warm through the thin fabric of my shirt. "You're letting someone else carry some of the weight."
Protection without possession. Strength that doesn't demand submission. A man who sees my exhaustion and offers support instead of using it to gain leverage.
"How long do I get to hide here before it gets awkward?"
"As long as you need." No hesitation. No judgment. Just steady certainty. "This isn't awkward. This is human."
Human. When was the last time I let myself be that? Let myself be tired, scared, needing comfort instead of projecting competence and independence like armor?
Sirens wail in the distance. Getting closer. Hartwell responding to Holden's call, bringing crime scene techs and investigators and all the official machinery designed to catch whoever is doing this.
"They're coming," I say, not moving from where I'm pressed against Holden's chest.
"They can wait." His arms tighten slightly. Not restraining. Anchoring. "Take all the time you need."
Time. Such a simple gift. Permission to be weak a while longer. To let someone else be strong while I catch my breath and remember how to stand on my own.
The sirens get louder. Vehicles pulling into the parking lot. Doors slamming. Professional voices calling orders.
Reality returning whether I'm ready or not.
Holden's hand slides from my back to my shoulder, steadying me as I pull away. His thumb brushes my cheek, wiping away tears I didn't realize were still falling.
"Better?"
"Getting there." The truth, surprisingly. The exhaustion is still there, the fear, the anger. But something else has joined them. Something that feels dangerously like hope.
Hope that this will end. That I'll be safe. That the man looking at me like I matter sees something worth protecting beyond an assignment.
"Lieutenant Commander Lange." Hartwell's voice cuts through the moment like a blade. "Dr. McKay. Fill me in."
Holden's hand drops from my shoulder but stays close, a silent reminder that he's here, that I'm not facing this alone.
The dead fish on my windshield is a message. Someone wants me afraid. Wants me broken. Wants me to stop asking questions and disappear the way Bruce always wanted.
But standing here with Holden's presence solid beside me, with the memory of his arms still warm against my back, the promise he made shifts something inside.
Being held doesn't have to mean being trapped. Accepting help doesn't make me weak.
Hartwell approaches the car, professional and efficient despite the grotesque display. Crime scene techs photograph the fish from multiple angles, bag the note with gloved hands, dust for prints that probably don't exist.
Holden stays beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. Close enough that I can feel his presence like a shield between me and whatever comes next.
"You okay?" he asks quietly while Hartwell examines the evidence.
Not demanding strength I don't have. Just checking in. Making sure I'm still standing.
"Ask me tomorrow. Right now I'm tired of being someone's target."
"Then we make sure you're not a target much longer." His voice carries that calm certainty that made me believe him when he promised to catch whoever was doing this. "This ends. Soon."
