I cross the room, my knees hitting the rug as I reach for her.My hands are careful but desperate as I pull her into my lap.She comes willingly, folding into me like she’s been waiting for the space I’ve been holding.I wrap my arms around her, cradling her as if I could keep every fracture from widening.
Her face presses into my chest, her breath hot through my shirt.She shakes once, then again, and I tighten my hold, rocking her in slow circles, my cheek resting against the crown of her head.Every tremor pulls me apart, but the feel of her in my arms—her warmth, her scent, her small sounds—stitches me back together.
“You’re here,” I whisper into her hair, the words breaking but true.“You’re here with us.We’ll keep you safe.I swear, Cleo.I fucking swear.”
She mumbles something against me, half words, half prayer, and I feel her voice vibrate against my chest.My arms tighten on instinct, hands splayed across her back, as if I could press her deeper into me until nothing could reach her.My fingers comb into her hair, not to control but to soothe, to remind her she’s not alone.
Barret moves closer, his hand finding my forearm.Not pulling me back, not intruding—just a tether, reminding me I don’t have to carry this alone.
Cleo lifts her head, her eyes wet and fragile, and for the first time since she walked into this house, there’s a trace of peace in them.
“You don’t have to say anything,” I murmur.My thumb brushes her temple as I hold her tighter.“Rest.Breathe.We’ll talk when you’re ready—or we won’t.Whatever you need.”
Her breath slows, her body softening into mine.I press my lips to the top of her head, soft and reverent, like the answer to a prayer I hadn’t dared to speak.
I don’t let go.I can’t.And for the first time that night, I feel the room shift—still broken, still bruised, but holding.
ChapterSeventeen
Eddie
The house is quiet in that after-midnight way—lamps dimmed low, the ocean thudding at the windows like a reminder that it’s still there.Cleo sleeps behind a door I left cracked open, just like she asked.
It was an intense day.She didn’t want me to leave her side, and when she finally settled, she made me promise to show up as myself—because right now she doesn’t always know how to ask for comfort, only that she needs it.Maybe I should tell Barret.Cleo understands our intentions.We even requested guidance from a therapist before her arrival.
However, Cleo has told me she isn’t something to be handled.She wants to be Cleo—the woman who chooses to be with us—not someone we need to fix.
Barret is on the rug when I come in, guitar across his knees, hair still damp from the shower.“Thought you were staying with her all night,” he says, surprised.
“I told her this is part of the work,” I answer.“Not just for us—yours and mine—but for her too.”
“Still—”
“This is homework,” I cut him off.“We said we’d do it.Just us.If she has a nightmare, we go to her.”I set the timer for sixty seconds and step into his space.
I help him up, his fingers warm at my waist, pulling me close before we even touch foreheads.I slide my palms over his shoulders and lift him until we stand chest to chest.We breathe.At first, it’s off—two people trying to find the same song by guessing.Then, a few slow breaths in, our ribs click into rhythm.His exhale meets my mouth.Mine answers.
The old reflex to crack a joke claws at my throat—anything to keep from feeling—but he knows me too well.He tucks his face under my jaw, a move I remember from the first time he held me when I was breaking.That time after I watched those despicable videos of Dorian ...He knows how to bring me back, though.It’s a small thing, yet it’s everything.
“Stay,” he says.
“I am,” I whisper.
The timer dings.We don’t pull away.When we break, it’s gentle, like easing a fragile thing into place so it won’t fall apart.
“Report card?”he tries for light, and it almost gets there.
“Pass,” I say.“With notes.”
He snorts.“Give me the notes.”
I trace the back of his hand with my thumb.“They’re from earlier—I used my boss voice with Cleo.I hate that I did.I’m sorry you had to check me.”
“You listened.”He presses his palm over mine.“You stepped back.That’s new, and we should call it progress.”
“I still hate it.”
“You’ll learn, but don’t be hard on yourself.”He grins.“If you do it again, I’ll tap your wrist and you’ll stop.Like adults.”
