“Can I get in?” I ask quietly, nodding toward the bed. “Just… sit with you?”
She hesitates. Just a beat. Then she nods.
I move slow, deliberate. I peel my boots off first, set them aside so the sound doesn’t spook her, then ease onto the mattress like it might break if I’m not careful. I don’t crowd her. I sit back against the headboard, legs stretched out, hands resting where she can see them.
After a second, I open my arm. An invitation. Nothing more.
She doesn’t move right away.
Then, inch by inch, she shifts closer. Her shoulder brushes my side. She exhales, shaky. I wrap my arm around her carefully, pulling her in until her head rests against my chest, my other hand coming up to cradle the back of her head. I keep my grip loose. Protective, not possessive.
She melts into me like she’s been holding herself together with wire and it finally snapped.
We stay like that for a long time.
The house settles around us. The cats reposition, one wedging itself between us like it belongs there, the other curling against her hip. Her breathing evens out, but she stays quiet. Too quiet.
I don’t push.
When she finally speaks, her voice is barely more than air.
“I used to be married.”
My chest tightens, but I don’t interrupt. I just nod, fingers tracing slow, grounding circles at her upper arm.
“His name was Brian,” she continues. “We met in college. He was charming. Funny. Everyone loved him.” She lets out a hollow little laugh. “I loved him.”
I stay still, let her talk.
She takes a breath like she’s bracing herself, like the words weigh something.
“I was… quiet back then,” she says. “Shy. I didn’t take up space the way I do now.”
My arm tightens around her, just a little.
“He made me feel special,” she continues. “Like I’d been chosen.” A pause. “Most men don’t fall for bigger girls like me. Not really. Not in a way that feels… serious.”
My chest aches at that. I keep my face calm, my body steady, because this isn’t about my reaction. It’s about her telling it.
“But he did,” she says. “At least, that’s what it felt like. He looked at me like I was rare. Like he saw me.” Her fingers curl tighter in my shirt. “He said he loved that I was soft. That I was different. That I made him feel needed.”
I swallow hard.
“And I believed him,” she whispers. “Because I wanted to. Because no one had ever looked at me like that before.”
She goes quiet again, the weight of it settling between us. I don’t rush her. I don’t fill the space with noise. I just breathe with her, slow and even, my hand warm at her back.
“That’s how it starts,” she says finally. “He made me feel like I was lucky he wanted me. Like I should be careful not to mess it up.”
My jaw tightens, but my voice stays gentle. “You weren’t lucky,” I say. “He was.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her head presses closer to my chest, like she’s listening to my heartbeat, like she’s checking whether it’s steady enough to trust.
“We got married young. Too young.” She swallows. “At first, he was good. Really good. Attentive. Protective in a way that felt… flattering.”
I close my eyes, rest my cheek against her hair, and hold her like she’s made of something precious. Because she is. And whoever convinced her otherwise doesn’t get to have a say anymore.
“After we got married, things started to change,” she says. “Slowly. So slowly I didn’t even notice at first.” Her fingers twist into my shirt. “He didn’t like my friends. Didn’t like what I wore. Didn’t like when I went out without him.”
