Then his hand shifts, sliding from the back of my neck to my shoulder, and he steps closer just enough that the warmth of him reaches me.
Not trapping. Not taking.
Offering.
“Hey,” he says, quieter. “Look at me.”
I try. I do. But my vision keeps snagging on the message, on the old fear it drags up, on the part of me that still expects punishment for breathing wrong.
His fingers flex once, gentle but sure.
“Breathe,” he says.
I swallow. My lungs refuse.
Saint’s other hand comes up slowly, like he’s asking permission without words. He doesn’t touch until I lean the slightest bit forward, until I close the gap myself.
He takes it as permission and wraps me in his arms.
Heat. Strength. A shelter I didn’t know I’d been bracing for.
My breath catches against his chest. My whole body goes tight, waiting for the moment it changes, when the comfort curdles, when the price comes due.
But it never does.
He just holds me. Steady. Unmoving. Like I can stay here as long as I need.
My hands shake as they lift, then settle against him. Fingers curling into his shirt like I’m afraid the second I let go, I’ll fall through the floor.
His breath brushes the top of my head. His voice follows, soft enough it feels secret.
“You’re here,” he says. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
The words don’t split me open. Theymeltsomething frozen. A slow thaw that starts in my chest and leaks warmth through my limbs until my eyes sting and my lungs finallywork.
I don’t cry. Not fully. But I shake once, hard, like my body can’t hold the weight of relief and fear at the same time.
And still, he just holds me.
I pull back before I can fall apart, but he doesn’t let go right away. His hands linger, one at my back, one at my arm, like he's offering to catch me if I change my mind.
I don’t.
But Ialmostdo.
He lets me go.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to argue. To insist I can handle it. That I don’t need anyone’s protection.
But the truth is, Iwanthis.
And I’m too scared, too raw, to pretend otherwise.
So I nod. “Okay.”
Saint watches me all the way to the bedroom door. Only when I’m back inside do I hear him resume his call, his voice a low murmur, calm and cold, like a man making promises no one survives breaking.
I crawl under the quilt, my heart still racing, my limbs too tired to move.
