Ellsworth reached Connor’s door and stopped, turning to me.
His eyes held mine—steady, serious.
“When you go in,” he said quietly, “don’t ask him for details. Don’t demand anything. He needs … anchoring.”
My throat tightened so hard it hurt.
“I can do that,” I whispered.
Ellsworth nodded once.
Then he knocked.
A single knock. Measured.
Not a polite social knock.
A signal.
The door opened.
And the moment it did, I felt it—like stepping into a room where the temperature had dropped ten degrees.
Connor stood inside.
His hair was slightly damp, like he’d washed his hands or his face and still hadn’t decided whether cleanliness mattered. His eyes were bloodshot. His jaw was tight in a way that wasn’t anger anymore—it was containment. Pure, brutal restraint holding something back.
He looked at me.
And something in his face broke.
Not dramatically.
But enough.
Enough that my chest cracked open with it.
“Mila,” he said, like my name was the only solid object left in his world.
I crossed the distance and went straight into him, arms wrapping around his torso, my face pressing into his chest. His body jerked like the impact startled him, like he hadn’t expected contact to feel this real.
Then his arms crushed around me.
Not careful. Not gentle.
Desperate.
Like he was holding onto the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.
I felt his breath shudder against my hair.
I felt his hands grip my back like he needed proof that I was here. That I was solid. That he hadn’t lost everything.
“I’m here,” I whispered, the words breaking through my throat like prayer. “I’m here. I’m here.”
His mouth pressed to the side of my head—no kiss, not exactly. More like a touch of teeth and breath and grief.
For a long moment, neither of us moved.
