I felt my breath shudder against her hair. Felt my hands grip her back like I needed proof she was real. That she was solid. That I hadn't lost everything that mattered.
"I'm here," she whispered, and the words hit me like absolution I didn't deserve. "I'm here. I'm here."
The repetition mattered. Each time she said it, something in me loosened fractionally. Like she was talking me back from an edge I hadn't realized I was standing on.
We stood like that for what felt like hours. Maybe it was. I'd lost track of time somewhere between pulling the trigger and washing blood off my hands that wasn't actually there.
She pulled back just enough to look at my face, her hands coming up to cup my jaw with a gentleness I didn't know how to accept. Forcing me to meet her eyes when all I wanted to do was look away.
"You don't have to tell me yet," she said softly. "You just have to let me be here."
Something in my chest cracked open.
A sound escaped me—raw and broken and completely beyond my control. Not quite a sob. Not quite a gasp. Something in between that I'd never made before and hoped I'd never make again.
I leaned forward, pressing my forehead to hers, my hands sliding down to grip her wrists like I needed to feel her pulse. Her warmth. Proof of life beating steady and sure.
She let me.
Didn't pull away. Didn't flinch. Didn't treat me like I was fragile or dangerous or something that needed to be handled carefully.
Just held space for whatever I was becoming in this moment.
Time passed. I didn't know how much. Could have been minutes. Could have been an hour.
Eventually she guided me to the bed, sitting beside me, her hand never leaving mine. Her thumb traced slow circles on my palm—grounding, rhythmic, anchoring me to the present when my mind kept trying to drag me back to concrete floors and blood and laughter that shouldn't have existed.
Her presence soothed something in me. Not fixing it. Not making it better or wiping it away like it never happened.
But... anchoring me. Keeping me from drifting too far into the void that wanted to swallow me whole. Reminding me that I was still here. Still breathing. Still capable of feelingsomething,even if that something was just her hand in mine.
Finally, I spoke.
"It was Merrick."
The words came out raw. Ruined. Like they'd been dragged over broken glass on their way from my chest to my mouth.
"He ... he killed them. My parents. The fire wasn't an accident. Hedidit. Poured the gasoline. Lit the match. Stood there and watched them burn."
Mila's hand tightened on mine but she didn't interrupt. Didn't gasp or cry out or demand details I couldn't give yet.
She just listened.
"He was there," I continued, and now that I'd started I couldn't stop. The words kept coming like they'd been dammed up too long and the barrier had finally broken. "At the funeral. Wearing a suit. Shaking my hand. Telling me he was sorry for my loss. Looking me in the eye and lying to my fucking face."
My vision blurred. I tried to blink it away but couldn't. Tears—actual tears—burned at the corners of my eyes for the first time since I was seventeen years old.
"And the whole time—the whole fucking time—he knew. Because he'ddoneit. He'd murdered them and then showed up to watch me grieve. Like it was entertainment. Like my pain was something he could consume."
The tears spilled over. I couldn't stop them. Didn't try.
"It's my fault," I said, the confession tearing out of me like something with claws. "If I hadn't gone to St. Paul's. If I hadn't gotten involved with them. If I'd just been a normal fucking kid who played baseball and went to public school and didn't attract their attention?—"
"No," Mila said firmly, her voice cutting through my spiral like a blade. "No. It was their fault. And Merrick's. Not yours. You were achild, Connor. You didn't choose any of this."
I looked at her then. Really looked at her.
And I told her the truth.
