“I’m not leaving,” he says. His eyes are dark, steady, almost dangerous in a way that makes my stomach tighten. “You don’t have to be afraid of me. You won’t ever be alone in this.”
I close my eyes, leaning into his hands, feeling the warmth, the strength of him. “I’m… I’m so scared, Ethan. I’ve pushed everyone away for so long. I… I don’t know how to let anyone in.”
“You don’t have to know how yet,” he says. “I’ll show you. I’ll be here. Every step.”
I feel a shudder run through me, but it’s different than before—less fear, more release. I start to let go, sobbing into the warmth of his hands, and for the first time, the chaos inside me feels… seen. Acknowledged. Held. Not judged, not mocked, not abandoned.
“I… I want… I want to try,” I whisper, voice barely audible. “I want… I need you, Ethan.”
“You have me,” he says, voice low and absolute. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
I cling to him, finally letting all of it—the rage, the pain, the fear—spill out. And amidst the tears and trembling, there’s a spark of relief, a fragile sort of hope. The storm inside me isn’t gone, but for the first time in years, I don’t have to face it alone.
I let out this ugly, wet huff of a laugh, dragging my hand across my face. “God… I’m honestly surprised you’re not legging it across the whole damn state after hearing how damaged I am.”
Ethan looks at me like I’ve said the stupidest thing in the universe. Not angry—just… stunned.
“Lucky,” he says, voice low and infuriatingly steady, “if you ever uncover a person without damage, they’re probably not real.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. My chest folds in on itself.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands dangling between them. He’s not touching me—not while he’s talking about something that still bleeds. I can feel that even from a foot away.
“Everyone carries something,” he goes on. “Life doesn’t hand out clean slates.”
I swallow. My lungs feel too tight for air.
“You think your damage scares me?” he murmurs. He lifts his eyes to me, and I swear I feel my heart try to climb out of my chest. “You don’t know the half of mine.”
The room shifts around us, like gravity’s suddenly uneven.
“I told you about Mara and me… and the fight we had,” he says. His voice changes—low, controlled in the way people get when control is the only thing holding them together. “It was a stupid one. I pushed when I should’ve listened. I got her angry, and she left to cool off.”
A beat. A jaw twitch.
“And you know what happened next.”
Oh God, yeah, I remember him telling me like it was yesterday.
Something breaks open behind my ribs—pain, empathy, guilt, all tangled together.
“For a long time,” he says, staring at his hands like they’re the crime scene, “I told myself if I’d shut my damn mouth, if I’d justbeen less stubborn, she wouldn’t have gotten in that car.” His throat tightens. “Wouldn’t have died.”
“Ethan…” I breathe, but it’s barely a sound.
“I know it’s not how it works. Accidents happen. But knowing and believing?” He shakes his head once. “Not the same thing.”
I want to crawl into his chest. I want to wrap my arms around him and hold the pieces together. I want to take the guilt out of him with my bare hands.
“I quit the army,” he says. “Moved home. Lily deserved a father who actually showed up. One Mara would’ve wanted her to have.”
A small breath, sharp. “I don’t regret that. Not for a second.”
My heart hurts so much, I don’t know where to put the feeling.
“And then you,” he says, looking up, “come crashing into my life like a damn hurricane with pink hair.”
Despite everything, something in me flickers.
