I nod slowly, absorbing that. My knee bounces faster for a second before I force it still. “Okay,” I say. “I just needed to know.”
She waits, giving me space instead of pushing.
“My brothers-in-law,” I add carefully, watching her face. “They’re members of the Iron Reapers MC.” Her expression doesn’t change much. No shock. No judgment. Just attentive. “And they’re the ones who handled the guy who hurt me,” I continue. “I trust them. Completely. They’re good men. They protect their families. But I didn’t want to leave that out.”
“Thank you for telling me,” she says evenly. “I’m not here to judge the people in your life, Brooke. My focus is you and how you’re feeling.”
Relief slides through me, quiet but real. “I just didn’t want to get anyone in trouble by talking about it,” I admit.
“You’re allowed to talk about your experience,” she says gently. “You’re not responsible for other adults’ choices.”
I nod, my shoulders dropping a fraction like something just unclenched inside me. “Okay,” I say again, this time meaning it.
“What are you feeling most right now when you think about that night?” she asks.
I take a second before answering. “Tired. And… jumpy. Like my body hasn’t caught up with the fact that it’s done.”
“That’s a very normal response to a boundary violation,” she says. “Your nervous system learned something it hasn’t unlearned yet.”
I nod slowly. That tracks.
“What’s helping, even a little?” she asks.
I think about Bella’s couch. Baby Jax’s sticky hands. Walking around the neighborhood with my headphones in. The quietweight of Rev sitting beside me that night without trying to fix anything.
“Being around people I trust,” I say. “Keeping busy, but not too busy.”
She smiles softly. “That’s a good place to start.”
On FridayI stand in my closet holding a blazer and heels and feel absolutely nothing but exhaustion at the idea of putting on armor again. I shove them back and pull on leggings and an oversized hoodie instead. Soft. Loose. Forgiving. I don’t recognize this version of myself yet. I don’t hate her either.
That afternoon I catch myself standing in my living room staring at the couch again, fingers rubbing absently over the fabric like muscle memory hasn’t gotten the memo yet. I picture Rev leaning back into the cushion, boot hooked over his knee, eyes scanning the room like a habit he doesn’t bother apologizing for.
My chest tightens in that quiet, annoying way. I don’t text him like I want to. Instead, I grab my keys and head to Bella’s.
Bri’s already sprawled sideways on the couch when I walk in, baby Jax draped across her stomach like a tiny king surveying his domain. Bella’s hovering in the kitchen pretending not to hover. The house smells like garlic and something sweet baking.
“Wow,” Bri says, eyeing my hoodie. “Look at you. Who are you and what did you do with my sister?”
I flop down beside her and steal a handful of popcorn. “I’m in my soft era. Don’t judge me.”
Baby Jax immediately lunges for my sleeve and squeals like he’s caught prey. I laugh before I can stop myself and let him climb halfway into my lap, his warm weight grounding me better than any breathing exercise ever has.
Bella watches us from the doorway, her smile soft and careful like she’s giving me space without hovering too close.
I lean back into the couch cushions, leggings stretched out, hoodie sleeves covering my hands, surrounded by noise and warmth and clutter and people who love me even when I’m not shiny or polished or productive.
By the end of the weekend I feel like the crack that’s fissured through me isn’t as big. That I can get back to my life and move on.
Somewhere in all of it, Rev keeps sneaking into my thoughts when I’m not trying to think about him. The way he sat held me on the couch like he wasn’t going anywhere. The quiet steadiness of his presence, like he didn’t need to talk to make me feel safe. I catch myself reaching for my phone more than once, almost texting him something stupid and small just to hear back from him, then stopping myself because I don’t know what that means yet.
I miss him. Not in a dramatic, sweeping way. In a low, steady way that hums under everything else, like muscle memory hasn’t caught up with the fact that he’s not right there anymore.
Somewhere between my therapy appointment, long walks, and too much time alone with my own thoughts, I start actually looking at my life instead of just moving through it on autopilot.My work. My routines. The way I say yes to everything and leave very little room for myself. The way I’ve built something solid and stable but maybe not something that really feeds me emotionally.
I ask myself questions I haven’t slowed down enough to ask in years. What do I actually want? What feels like safety versus what feels like settling? What kind of life am I building if I stop running from hard things and start choosing them on purpose?
THIRTEEN
