"I hate you." Even though it's not fully true.
His hand stills for a second. His scent wobbles—pain, deep and raw.
"I know. I understand why."
"I hate Ragon."
"I know."
"I don't hate Drake." The confession is small and miserable. "I want to, but I can't."
"That tracks. He's very difficult to hate for long."
I huff a wet, broken laugh. "You're not supposed to agree."
"You're not supposed to bottle this up."
I breathe. In and out. The blanket grows damp under my cheek.
"I thought it was going to be about bonding. When he said we needed to talk. I thought—"
"I know. We should have realized."
"You kept me out. You kept this whole other life you were building in another room and only invited me in once the paint dried."
He exhales. "Yes. And I'm sorry."
The words are simple. They don't fix anything. But they land true.
We sit in silence for a long time. Eventually, he lies back against my pillows and I curl against his chest, wrapped in new blankets that don't smell like home yet.
His hand rests at the nape of my neck, thumb rubbing back and forth in steady, soothing strokes.
"You can be angry. You can throw pillows later. You can scream. You can tell Ragon exactly how badly he handled this. You don't have to be graceful."
"I wasn't very graceful out there."
"No. You were honest. There's a difference."
I breathe. My sobs eventually taper into hiccups, then into little shivery breaths.
"I don't trust him. Not like I did yesterday."
Eli's hand stills for a heartbeat, then resumes its slow pattern.
"I know."
That's the worst part.
He doesn't say I'm wrong.
He just holds me while the first crack in the foundation of my world widens, and my nest—my perfect, safe, warm nest full of beautiful new things—feels a tiny bit less safe than it did this morning.
When sleep finally drags me under, it's not with peace.
It's with the knowledge that no matter what they promise, no matter how many times they saywe're not sending you away,something has already been taken.
Something I may never get back.
