He held me until my breathing stopped racing.
Now here we are.
“You were shaking,” he says softly, like he heard the part I didn’t give him. He steps closer, shoulder catching the door before it closes. “Nightmare?”
“Just my brain doing its fucked-up greatest hits.”
He stops in front of me, close enough that the cold finally loses. The porch is narrow; it forces us into the same breath. His eyes catalogue every shadow on my face, every place I pretend doesn’t ache.
It all aches.
Some wounds just learned how to hide.
"You should have woken me." "I did wake you. You were already there."
The corner of his mouth twitches with a smile he doesn’t entirely trust. “Smartass.”
“Ex-priest,” I shoot back. “You’re the one who taught me honesty is holy.”
A soft, broken laugh escapes him. He glances past me, toward the trees, the gravel, the thin road cutting through wild green.
“Too quiet?” he asks.
“Too… everything,” I admit.
His gaze snaps back to mine.
“Too much?”
“Yes.” My throat works. “No. I don’t know.”
My hands flex against the rail. I make myself let go before the wood cracks.
“I don’t trust peace,” I tell him. “It’s always been the calm before someone hurts me. I keep waiting for a black car to crawl up that drive. For someone to kick in that door. For you to tell me this was just a fantasy and now you have to put the collar back on and be holy for people who never deserved you.”
He steps in close.
The world reduces to his eyes.
“Look at me.”
I do.
He looks older now. Sharper. Like he survived something he can never give back. But there’s something else there too.
Something still.
“I’m not going back,” he says. “Not to him. Not to that house. Not to being anyone’s weapon.”
He lifts his hand slowly, giving me time to pull away.
I don’t.
His fingers circle my wrist, thumb pressing into my pulse like he’s anchoring himself to it.
“This is where I am,” he says. “Here. With you. In this fucked-up miracle of a house, we’re going to turn into something that doesn’t hurt when you breathe.”
My throat burns.
