I didn’t answer right away. The words settled between us, heavy but not crushing.
Instead, I slid off the stool and stepped into him, pressing my forehead against his chest. His body went still for half a second—muscle memory bracing for rejection—then softened. One hand came up to cradle the back of my head, fingers gentle, reverent. He didn’t pull me closer.
He let me choose the distance. His lips brushed my hair. Barely there but enough to know he was with me. Just that and nothing more. But it was exactly what I needed.
Something in my chest cracked. Not with pain this time, but release. A long, shuddering exhale left me, like I’d been holding my breath for weeks without realizing it. My fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, knuckles pressing into warmth and cotton and the solid reassurance of him.
We ate in quiet comfort after that. Not heavy silence. Companionable. The kind that didn’t demand anything. He made sure I took my meds without comment. Made sure I drank water. Didn’t remark on how slowly I ate, or how little. Just sat with me, grounding the room by being in it.
When the plates were cleared and the kitchen dimmed into evening, he turned to me again.
“Bath?” he asked gently. “If you want.”
The word landed softly. An offer. Not an expectation. My body ached in places I’d been ignoring. My arm throbbed. My chest felt tired in a way that went deeper than muscle.
I nodded.
The bathroom filled with steam as the tub ran, the mirror fogging until the room felt smaller, safer—edges softened. Anthony tested the water with his wrist, adjusted thetemperature without being asked. Muscle memory. Care that lived in his body now.
He helped me ease out of my shirt, careful of my arm now it was only in a sling, movements slow and reverent in a way that made my throat ache. There was no hesitation in his touch, but no claim either—just attention. Just patience.
I stepped into the tub and sank down with a sigh I hadn’t realized I’d been holding all day.
The heat wrapped around me immediately, seeping into my bones, loosening muscles that had been clenched for weeks. My shoulders dropped. My jaw unclenched. My eyes burned like they’d been waiting for permission.
Anthony kneeled beside the tub, rolling his sleeves up, hoodie cuffs darkening slightly as steam clung to the fabric. He filled a plastic cup and poured water over my hair—slow, steady, grounding. The sound of it filled the room.
“Okay?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah,” I whispered. It felt true.
His fingers moved through my hair as he worked the shampoo in. Not rushing. Just care given in small, deliberate motions. His thumbs traced gentle circles at my scalp, anchoring me to the moment.
The tears came without warning.
Not sobs at first—just hot, silent tracks slipping from the corners of my eyes and disappearing into the bathwater. My breath hitched. My chest tightened like it had been waiting for this exact moment to give in.
Anthony noticed immediately. He always did. “Hey,” he murmured, voice low. “It’s alright.”
“I don’t—” My voice cracked, fragile. “I don’t know why this hurts.”
He didn’t answer right away. Finished rinsing the shampoo carefully, making sure none stung my eyes, his hands still steady even as my body began to shake.
“Because being cared for feels dangerous,” he said finally, gently, “when it used to disappear.” His thumb brushed my temple. “And because you didn’t get enough of it when you needed it most. Especially from me.”
Something inside my chest caved.
The sound that tore out of me was ugly and raw, the kind of cry that comes from somewhere deeper than language. My shoulders folded inward, my body curling around itself like it was trying to become smaller, safer.
Anthony leaned forward, pressing his forehead to mine, his hands stilling against my scalp. “I’ve got you,” he said, voice thick, unguarded. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I cried into his shoulder, water sloshing softly around us as my body shook. He stayed exactly where he was. Didn’t shush me. Didn’t rush me. Let me come apart without trying to put me back together too fast.
When the tears finally slowed, when my breathing evened out into something survivable, he wrapped a towel around my shoulders, careful and sure.
The room stayed warm. The steam lingered. And for the first time in a long while, the care didn’t feel like something I had to earn. It just existed—quiet, steady, and real.
The journal appeareda few days later.
