He swallowed. “I feel like I could,” he whispered.
My arms tightened instinctively. Not in possession. Not in control. Just anchoring. “Then lean on me,” I said softly. “I’ve got you.”
And he did as I held him close. Heart hammering against my ribs because in that moment, he needed someone to be solid. I was finally strong enough to do that. Because I realized I was unable to walk away from him again. Not without tearing myself to pieces in the process.
That was the dangerous part. Not that he needed me. That he stopped trembling when I held him.
His breathing evened out slowly, like waves after a storm. The rigid line of his shoulders softened. His fingers loosened their grip on my top but didn’t let go. Just… rested there. Trusting that I would still be there when he needed to hold on again.
I felt it happen in real time—the shift from survival to safety. From panic to dependence. Something inside me went cold with the understanding of it. Because I knew that feeling. I knew what it was like to let someone become the place where the pain stopped. Learned how badly it could go wrong. I stayed still anyway.
Minutes passed, maybe longer. The light crept higher over the ocean, gilding the edges of his hair, catching on his wet lashes. He didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. His whole body had already decided where it belonged.
“You can let go now,” I said softly.
He didn’t. Not stubbornly or in defiance. Just… not yet. “I know,” he whispered.
His forehead pressed a little harder into my chest as if his body hadn’t gotten the message. His shoulders rose as he inhaled deeply, a soft sigh passing his lips. My hands tightened before I could stop them.
That scared me. The instinct was too fast. Too sure. Too much like a claiming. I loosened my grip deliberately. Not enough for him to notice, but enough for me to feel it.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I murmured, more to myself than him.
He exhaled softly. Like that was all the answer I needed. That was another dangerous part. That my words mattered that much. That my presence could quiet the storm in him.
That I could become the thing he reached for instead of learning how to stand when I wasn’t there.
My eyes fell closed as I tipped my forehead into his hair and let his sweet lavender and honey scent surround me. This is how it starts, I thought. Not with a burning desire, but with relief. With someone finally not leaving. With that same person being enough.
That is exactly why I had to be careful.
Eventually, gently, I shifted. I wasn’t pulling away. Just enough that he had to lift his head. He did, slowly. Almost reluctantly, blinking against the light like someone waking from a dream. Those wide beguiling hazel eyes with flecks of green and gold glistened in the sunlight.
We were too close. Close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath on my mouth. Close enough that my body noticed before my brain did. Close enough that I could feel the heat of him though the morning chill.
His gaze dropped. The air felt too thin between us. Like it had been pulled tight. Just for a second. To my mouth. Then back to my eyes. The tension between us thickened. Charged. Like something waiting to be named. The world narrowed. Wind. Salt. Heat.
The sky behind him was bleeding into scarlet and gold, the sun tearing its way up from the horizon like something violent and alive. Everything felt too bright. Too loud. Too much.
His pupils were blown wide. His cheeks were flushed—not with warmth, but with something fevered and unsteady. Like standing too close to a fire.
“You don’t hold someone like that,” he whispered, barely audible now, “unless you’re already theirs.”
The words didn’t accuse. They claimed. We leaned in at the same time. Drawn. Not chosen. Like gravity had finally won. Like whatever rule we were pretending to live by had lost.
Our foreheads touched. Our noses brushed. His breath stuttered. So did mine. It wasn’t a kiss. Just the ghost of one—already formed, already waiting. My breath tangled with his. His lips parted. And then fear slammed into me. I pulled back like I’d touched fire. The space between us snapped open like a wound.
“I held you to keep you from breaking,” I said hoarsely. My voice dropped. Honest in a way I hadn’t meant to be. “I didn’t know I’d start breaking too.”
The light went out of his eyes. Not all at once. Just… dimmed. Like someone turning down a lamp in a room that had been warm. “Oh,” he said. It wasn’t surprise. It was recognition. Of a pattern.
“Oh,” he said again. But this time it meant something else.
His arms fell away from me. Not fast. Not angry. Just… done. “Right,” he murmured. “Okay.”
The word wasn't an agreement. It was a retreat. He stepped back first. Just one step. But it felt like he’d crossed an ocean.
“You okay?” I asked.
