The warmth hit first. Subtle, not only the temperature but the feeling. Her place smelled faintly like cinnamon and lavender. The floors were dark hardwood, the walls a clean, pale gray, and everything in sight was in its place. There wasn’t a single item out of order—no dirty dishes, no unfolded laundry, no clutter. It didn’t feel cold, but it didn’t feel entirely lived-in either. Like she kept it this way out of necessity, not comfort.
To the left was the kitchen—small but spotless. A ceramic fruit bowl sat on the counter, filled with perfectly arranged apples and bananas that looked like they hadn’t been touched. A knife block still held its factory shine, and a single mug sat beside the sink, drying upside down on a neatly folded towel.
The living room was equally sharp. A cream-colored couch with a navy throw folded into thirds on the arm. The TV was mounted, the remotes placed exactly parallel on the edge of the table. Two framed photos were on the bookshelf—one of a little boy holding a football, another of what looked like her graduating class, blurry in the background but her in focus, smiling stiffly.
Everything about the place screamed control. She kept it in line. She kept it clean. But it wasn’t sterile. It was careful. Like if she kept everything right, the chaos wouldn’t find its way in.
She went straight to the kitchen without looking back. I lingered near the doorway, scanning the space again, slower this time. Her personality was here—but only in echoes. A throw pillow with the Cubs logo on it. A book of grief and trauma theory tucked between two novels. The tiniest crack in the frame around her diploma that she hadn’t bothered to replace. And a candle low on the windowsill, the label faded from being lit too often.
I could feel the version of her that lived here—alone, organized, and self-contained. The part of her she never showed at work. The part she hadn’t let me see until tonight.
She opened a cabinet, then another. Her hand hovered over a glass, but she didn’t take it. I didn’t think she even knew what she was looking for. Her shoulders twitched once, then settled into stillness again, like she was forcing the tension down where I couldn’t see it.
“Sloane,” I said gently, not moving from the entry. “Let me get you whatever you need. Just… go sit. Rest. You don’t have to do anything right now.”
“I don’t know how to do that,” she said, too fast. Her voice was strained, quiet but sharp. She turned halfway, still not meeting my eyes. “I don’t know what I need.”
I stepped in further, slow enough not to crowd her. “Okay. That’s fair. Then tell me what not to do. I’ll work from there.”
She gave a humorless breath, something close to a laugh. “I’m not used to people asking that.”
I nodded once. “Yeah, I figured.”
She leaned back against the counter, both hands gripping the edge like she was bracing for something. The bandage at her elbow tugged slightly when she shifted, but she didn’t react to it. “I keep thinking if I move or sit or take my shoes off, I’ll spiral. I should know how to handle this. I should be better than this, but the second I still, I’m gonna freak out. I can’t… I’m barely holding on.”
I moved to the other side of the island, careful to keep the space between us steady. Not too far. Not too close. “Well, stop then. React how you need to, feel what you need to. You’re safe here.”
“I don’t want to fall apart in front of you. I can’t fall apart in front of you,” she said, her voice quiet and barely abovea whisper. She closed her eyes and hung her head, the stress almost a physical aura around her. “Maybe you should go.”
“Sloane, honey,” I said, my voice gentle but firm as I stepped closer to her so our shoes touched. I tilted her chin up, waiting until she met my eyes. “I’m not fucking leaving you tonight, so don’t ask me to.”
Her eyes watered, and she swallowed so hard it clicked. “Okay.”
I didn’t move my hand. I kept my fingers resting under her chin, feeling the warmth of her skin, the tiny tremble still working its way through her throat. She looked up at me like she wasn’t sure what I saw. Like maybe if I looked too long, I’d see all the cracks.
But all I saw was her.
Her hair was half up, messier now, a few strands falling near her cheek. Her eyes were red-rimmed. And god, even now—especially now—she was stunning. The kind of beautiful that didn’t beg for attention. It just was.
“I meant what I said,” I told her, softer now. “You don’t have to hold it all together right now. Let me help. Let me stay. I’ll do whatever you need, even if it’s sitting here while you fall asleep.”
She blinked once, her expression caught somewhere between surrender and disbelief. Her hand moved slightly like she was going to reach for me, then stopped.
I didn’t wait.
I leaned in slow, pressing my forehead to hers. Her breath hitched. My hand moved from her chin to her cheek, my thumb brushing beneath her eye where the faintest tear had started to gather. “You’re safe, Sloane.”
“God, I was so scared.” Her voice cracked down the center, and her face twisted before she closed her eyes and leaned into me. Her fingers fisted in the front of my shirt. She buried her face in it, quiet but shaking, her breath hot against my chest.
I wrapped my arms around her, no hesitation. My hand cradled the back of her head, the other curling around her shoulders as she trembled in my arms. She wasn’t sobbing—but the tremors told me more than tears ever could. This wasn’t fear. It was the aftermath. The letting go. And fuck, it hurt to witness, but I wasn’t going to let her do this alone.
“I kept thinking he was going to snap,” she whispered, voice muffled against my shirt. “That if I moved too fast or said the wrong thing, he’d hit me. I—I saw it coming, and I still didn’t press the button.”
“You were doing your job,” I said, rubbing her back, slow and steady. “You stayed calm because that’s who you are. That doesn’t make this your fault.”
“I froze,” she said, voice rising a little.
I pulled back enough to see her face. “You didn’t freeze. You de-escalated. You stayed calm. You got out withoutlettingit become something worse. That’s strength, Sloane. Not failure.”
