I sagged into him, forehead pressed against his collarbone, rain dripping onto his chest. My whole body was shaking now. Violent, uncontrollable tremors that rattled my teeth and made my breath come in sharp, uneven pulls.
Anthony adjusted without thinking. He widened his stance, anchored himself, one arm wrapping around my back with steady pressure, the other coming up to cradle the base of my skull.
“Okay,” he murmured, low and even. “I’ve got you. Breathe with me.”
He inhaled deliberately, deep and slow, chest rising beneath my cheek. I tried to match it. Failed. Tried again.
His hand pressed more firmly between my shoulders. Not restraining, just present. A constant, reassuring weight. Mynervous system latched onto it like it recognized something ancient and necessary.
“There you go,” he said quietly. “That’s it. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. I’m right here.”
My breath stuttered, then hitched, then—finally—followed his. In. Out. In. Out. The shaking didn’t stop right away, but it softened. Shifted. Became something survivable.
I clutched him harder, fingers curling into the back of his hoodie, burying my face against his chest like I could disappear there. His heart was beating fast too—I could feel it—but it was steady. Strong. A rhythm I could borrow until mine remembered what it was supposed to do.
“I hated it,” I whispered, words tearing out of me. “I hated being there without you.”
“I know,” he said immediately. No hesitation. No judgment.
We stood like that for a long moment. Neither of us moving, just breathing together in the entryway while rain tapped against the windows and the house slowly learned our shape.
Anthony shifted first, carefully. “You’re soaked,” he said gently. “Come on. Let’s get you warm.”
He didn’t let go when he said it. He just guided me down the hall with one hand still firm at my back, like he didn’t trust the floor to hold me on its own. When my knees wobbled again, his grip tightened automatically, steadying me without comment.
In the bathroom, steam bloomed as he turned on the faucet for the bath. The sound filled the space, drowning out the echo of everything else. He helped me peel off my wet jacket, my socks, movements unhurried and respectful, like this was something sacred instead of practical.
When I started shaking again—harder this time—he stilled me with a hand on my sternum.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Stay with me. Feel that?”
I nodded, throat too tight to speak.
“That’s your heart,” he continued. “It’s still going. You’re still here.”
The words sank in slowly, landing somewhere deep.
He helped me into the bath and lowered me down. Then stripped and folded his clothes, leaving them next to the sink before gesturing for me to move forward so he could slip in behind me.
The water sloshed over the sides as he sat down and pulled me back until I was cradled against his body. His arms wrapped around me like parentheses—holding, not trapping.
One hand rested over my sternum, warm and solid, the other curved around my waist, thumb tracing slow, absent arcs into my skin. The heat of the water softened my muscles, but it was his presence that finally let something unclench.
The heat helped. The sound of his breathing helped. His presence helped most of all. For the first time since he’d left that morning, my body stopped screaming.
I clung to him, breath evening out inch by inch, and let myself believe—just for now—that I didn’t have to face the world alone. That my nervous system had found its way home.
My head tipped back against his shoulder as my body gave in to gravity. Anthony’s lips brushed my temple—barely there. That gentle touch felt more intimate than anything else in the world.
“Do you want to talk about it, baby boy?” he murmured.
The words loosened something fragile.
A shudder ran through me as my father’s face rose up in my mind. The disgust etched deep into his expression, the way his gaze had raked over me like it was looking for faults to catalogue.
“He said—” My throat closed. I swallowed, my shoulders creeping up toward my ears. Anthony felt it immediately and tightened his arms—grounding pressure, a quietstay. “He said he feels sick when he looks at me.”
Anthony didn’t speak. His chest expanded slowly against my back, his breathing deliberate—an anchor I could hook myself to.
