“I’ve got you,” he whispered, brushing damp hair from my forehead. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
He knelt beside me, used the sleeve of his hoodie to wipe the tear tracks and dirt from my face. He whispered my name like it was a vow, like it meant something holy.
I didn’t speak. I was too tired. Too empty.
He helped me out of my ruined jeans and pulled a pair of soft sweats over my feet, tenderly like I was made of glass. Then he stilled.
“Your knees,” he murmured.
I followed his gaze. The skin was raw, red, streaked with dried blood where I’d gone down on the road. I hadn’t even felt it.
He disappeared for a moment and came back with a cloth, kneeling in front of me like it mattered. LikeImattered. He cleaned the scrapes gently, careful not to press too hard, his touch steady and sure.
I watched him like I didn’t understand what I was seeing. Not the care but the intention behind it. Once he was done, he threw the cloth on the table and hesitated again, glanced at my damp shirt, and quietly tugged his hoodie over my head instead. I didn't have the strength to help him. I just let him move me.
When I finally slumped against him on the couch, I broke again. “Why did he leave me, too?” My voice was hoarse, barely audible. “I’m all alone now.”
Anthony’s arms tightened around me like a vise. “You’re not alone,” he said, kissing the top of my head. “You have me. I’m not going anywhere. Not today. Not tomorrow. For as long as you need me, I’m yours.”
The words should have felt like comfort. Instead, they landed like something fragile I was afraid to break. My fingers tightened in his shirt—not pulling him closer, not pushing him away, just… holding. Caught between wanting to believe him and not trusting the world enough to let myself. If I was easy to love, he’dstay. If I stayed quiet, I wouldn’t be too much. And if I wasn’t too much… maybe I wouldn’t be left.
A quiet sob caught in my throat, lodged somewhere between disbelief and something that felt terrifyingly close to hope. I buried my face in his chest, trying to memorize the scent of him—smoke, cedar and sea salt. He was safe. Solid. Unshakable. I clung to him like a lifeline. Like he was the last steady thing in a world that kept spinning out from under me. And for the first time in longer than I could remember… I slept. Still broken. But not alone.
I woke up hours later, my cheek pressed to the soft cotton of Anthony’s hoodie, my head cradled on his lap. The rise and fall of his stomach beneath me was slow and even, his fingers idly combing through my hair like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
I didn’t move. Didn’t dare.
His hand stilled for a second, like maybe he’d felt the shift in my breathing, but then resumed—slow and gentle, more comforting than I had any right to deserve. I closed my eyes again, letting myself drift.
Sometime later, after drifting in and out, I surfaced again—this time spooned against his chest. His leg was tangled between mine, his arm locked around my waist like he was holding me in place. I could feel the weight of his breath against the back of my neck. His palm pressed flat against my stomach. Anchoring me. Calming the riot inside me.
I’d never felt so safe in my life.
The next time I woke—hours later—the room was washed in soft flickering light. My head was back in his lap, one arm curled under me, the other gripping the edge of his hoodie. The drawstring tassel was in my mouth—I must’ve started chewing it in my sleep.
Anthony was sitting perfectly still, like he’d been there for a long time. The TV was playing something muted—some old movie I didn’t recognize. But he wasn’t watching it. His gaze was fixed on me. Soft. Quiet. Almost unreadable.
“Hey,” I whispered, my voice rough with sleep.
His lips twitched. “Hey.”
Something shifted in that moment. Not big. Not dramatic. But something real. Like maybe—for just a breath—he felt it too. The thing I hadn’t dared name that existed between us. That I wasn’t just a burden. That maybe I was something to him. Something more.
I sat up, sluggish and bleary, brushing the heel of my hand across my eyes. “I’m going to—uh… wash my face,” I muttered.
“Take your time,” he said. His voice was soft, but there was something in it that made my chest hurt.
In the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face and gripped the edge of the sink. My reflection looked like hell. Eyes red-rimmed, and puffy hair flattened on one side from where I’d been pressed into him. My hoodie—his hoodie—hung off my frame like armor I hadn’t earned.
But it smelled like him. And that was enough to keep me breathing.
When I padded back into the room, I stood awkwardly at the edge of the couch, biting the inside of my cheek. The room was dim now, the low hum of the refrigerator and the street outside the only background noise.
“You, uh… want to stay for dinner?” I asked, trying to sound casual, like it wasn’t the most terrifying sentence I’d ever said. My chest felt tight waiting for his answer—like if he said no, something in me would collapse again, and I wasn’t sure I could survive that twice in one day.
Anthony looked up from where he was sitting, still half-braced against the weight of the day. His shoulders were drawntight, fatigue etched into every line of his face. His shirt was wrinkled from where I’d clung to it earlier—like my hands hadn’t quite wanted to let him go.
His eyes, deep brown and storm-worn, met mine. There was something broken in them. Familiar. A mirrored grief. He’d been through hell and looked like he was still there.
