“You don’t have to stop.” I pull her closer, pressing her against my bare chest. “Just don’t run alone.”
For a long moment, she stands there—not clinging, not kissing, just breathing against me, letting herself be held while her world shakes.
I wrap my arms around her, grounding her the only way I know how.
And for the first time since she bolted, her breathing starts to slow.
For a while, all she does is breathe against me, small and trembling, her cheek pressed to my chest like she’s trying to anchor herself to the sound of my heartbeat.
I hold her tighter.
Not because I’m trying to trap her.
But because she finally stopped running.
“Lucky,” I murmur into her hair, “come back to my place.”
She stiffens—not pulling away, just freezing like the wordinsideis a cliff edge.
“I can’t,” she whispers. “I’ll… fall apart again.”
“Okay,” I say. “Then fall apart inside, not out here while I’m looking like some streaker on your porch.”
Her laugh is a broken puff of breath. “Ethan…”
I tilt her chin gently so she’s looking at me. Her eyes are red, lashes clumped with tears, hair sticking to her face in little damp strands.
“Come inside,” I repeat softly. “Let me take care of you for tonight. Nothing else. No pressure. No expectations.”
She swallows, gaze flicking over me—bare skin, the rainy chill raising goosebumps over my shoulders—and something changes in her expression.
Guilt. Or maybe realization.
“You’re… you’re naked,” she whispers, like she’s only just registering it.
“I noticed,” I deadpan.
For the first time since she ran, a ghost of a smile twitches at her lips.
I brush my thumb across her cheek again. “Lucky. It’s just my home. Just you and me. You don’t have to be strong right now.”
Her eyes fill again, but this time she nods—just once. Small. Fragile. Brave.
“Okay,” she breathes.
I take her hand, lacing my fingers through hers, and lead her back across the yard, up the porch steps. She follows close, as if she’s afraid that if she lets go, she’ll disappear into the dark.
Inside, the coolness of the room wraps around us.
I grab the first thing I can reach—a hoodie off the hook—and pull it on. She stands there watching, still shaking subtly, oversized t-shirt hanging to mid-thigh, hair wild and damp, cheeks blotchy from crying.
She looks like she survived a storm.
Sheisa storm.
“Sit,” I say gently, motioning toward the couch.
She lowers herself onto the cushions, pulling her knees to her chest. Not curled up to hide—but like she’s protecting something tender inside her.
