A few seconds later, I hear her footsteps rushing downstairs. A door closing.
And I know she’s not okay.
I know she’s breaking again, alone.
And even though everything in me wants to go after her, kick down every door if I have to—something in my chest snaps.
Fuck this.
I’m off the bed and down the hallway before I even realize I’m not wearing a damn thing. The warm air hits my skin as I throw open the back door and jog naked and barefoot into the yard.
She’s halfway across her porch, T-shirt pulled down and arms wrapped around herself, shoulders shaking. Like she’s trying to outrun her own heartbeat.
“Lucky,” I call out, not loud, but firm.
She flinches—actually flinches—and that alone guts me.
She doesn’t turn around.
I take the steps two at a time and reach her before she gets to her door. My hand closes around her wrist—not tight, just enough to make her stop running from the only person who would never hurt her.
She freezes. Her breath is sharp, panicked.
“Hey,” I say quietly, stepping in front of her. “Look at me.”
When her eyes lift, they’re glassy, frantic, like she’s bracing for impact.
“Why did you follow me?” she whispers, voice cracking. “I said I was fine.”
“You’re shaking,” I say. “You’re not fine.”
She squeezes her eyes shut, tears spilling over. “I shouldn’t have— I shouldn’t have done any of that. I don’t know what I’m doing, Ethan. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know how to— how to be this close to someone and not fall apart.”
“Okay,” I murmur. “Then fall apart.”
Her breath hitches.
“Fall apart,” I repeat. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
She shakes her head violently. “You don’t get it. When I run, people leave. Or they tell me I’m too much. Or they try to fix me. And I don’t want you to—”
I step closer, chest brushing her trembling hands.
“If you run,” I tell her, voice low and steady, “I’ll run with you.”
She opens her eyes, startled.
“You hear me?” I continue. “You take two steps, I’ll take two with you. You collapse, I’ll catch you. You need air, I’ll open every fucking window. But I’m not letting you go down there alone.”
Her lips part, but nothing comes out. The wind stirs her hair. She looks so small, so wrecked, it makes my throat burn.
I cup her jaw gently, thumb brushing her tear-damp cheek.
“You’re not too much,” I say. “You’re not broken. You’re overwhelmed. And you don’t have to hide that from me.”
Her breath shudders, and she leans into my touch like she can’t help it.
“I don’t know how to stop running,” she whispers.
