This wasn’t love. Not the kind that saved. It was fear masquerading as care—because the thought of losing him terrified me more than any war I’d ever fought.
He was grief personified, all sharp edges and silent suffering, wrapped in skin that still smelled like hope. And when hedidsmile—those rare, flickering smiles like stars breaking through cloud cover—it felt like being reborn.
I lived for those smiles. Icravedthem. Because when Elliot smiled, it was like watching winter crack open into spring. Hesitant. Unwilling. But full of impossible promise.
I would burn the world down to see that light in him again.
His hand twitched against my chest, fingers curling in my skin like he was anchoring himself, and it damn near destroyed me. I didn’t deserve that trust. That softness. But I held still, a statue beneath him, letting him use me like a lifeline.
My throat burned.
I wanted to tell him everything. That I was already his. That he didn’t need to ask. That he didn’t evenknowthe hold he had on me. Instead, I whispered into the dark, “It’s not love. It’s fear in disguise. Dressed up like tenderness so I don’t have to name what this really is.”
But itwassomething close to love. The terrifying kind. The kind that came for you in your sleep and tore you open from the inside out. It was the kind that said,Take everything. Take me. Just don’t go.
I didn’t sleep. I didn’t move. I just let him hold onto me, let him believe I was someone who could carry the weight without buckling.
Even though tomorrow, I’d have to walk away. Even though tomorrow, I’d have to forget the way he felt curled into my chest.
But dawn didn’t wait. The sky cracked open and beside me, Elliot stirred. Tomorrow had come.
And I was already too far gone.
He shifted against me with a sound almost too quiet to be real—a sigh tugged from sleep’s slack grip. Lashes fluttered once, twice, then lifted. His gaze met mine, slow and dazed, mouth parted slightly, breath warm against my chest. For asecond, he seemed untouched by life. Unscarred. Like the world hadn’t torn through him with all its teeth.
Recognition hit me hard. He rolled half on top of me, one leg sliding between mine, arm flung across my waist. Cheek pressed to my throat, seeking something steady. Seeking me.
A subtle pressure followed, his hips nudging once, an achingly slow grind. Every part of me reacted before thought could interfere—back arching, heat pooling low in my spine, a sharp bite to the inside of my cheek. It wasn’t hunger driving him, nor conscious want. It was instinct, a search for closeness, for a tether to something solid when the rest of the world kept falling away.
Another small roll, deeper this time, drew a soft, needy sound from my throat despite myself. It startled me, not because it was loud, but because it wasn’t deliberate. My hands gripped his waist—not to restrain, but to ground both of us. The contact steadied him. It did nothing for me. Fingers dug into the soft flesh above his hips, anchoring him, keeping the fragile line between comfort and something more from snapping. Tension coiled up his spine like a warning, mirrored in the tight ache spreading through my chest.
“Elliot.” My voice was low. Rough. A growl meant to cut through the haze. “Stop.” The word felt like a lie in my mouth.
His eyes opened, confusion and recognition wrestling across them. The flicker that followed—the one that broke something inside me—spoke louder than any words. Need. Pure, feral need.
“Anthony…” his voice barely rose, a whisper fragile as a thread. A plea. An offering.
Hearing my name like that—not spoken, butoffered—tightened something behind my eyes. “No,” I said, harsher than intended. “Don’t ask me to be that. I can’t. I won’t.”
Fingers curled against my chest, nails dragging, trembling. “I just… I didn’t mean to…” Words caught in him, incomplete.
Maybe that was worse than anything he could have said.
Hands still holding him, I felt the hammer of my own heart in response, slamming against ribs, threatening to undo me. “I know,” came out hoarse. “But this isn’t what you think it is.”
“You think I don’t know what I’m doing?” His voice carried no fire, only that same fragile ache.
He wasn’t naïve—just exhausted from invisibility. Offering himself to someone who could see him, without any guarantee of protection.
Eyes glassy, cheeks hollowed by grief, he wasn’t asking for comfort. He was asking for proof. Proof that someone could see all the broken pieces of him and still stay. And God help me—I wanted to give it.
Thumb brushing beneath his eye, skin impossibly soft, I whispered, “You don’t want this. Not really.”
He flinched. Full lips trembled. “I do.” So quiet. So certain. So dangerous in its truth.
“You wantsomething, Elliot. But it’s not me. It’s not this.” My voice cracked on the last word.
“Yes, it is. You’re the only one who ever—” He swallowed, stopped, held back. “You’re the only one who sees me.”
