He’s being careful. And I know why.
He knows.
Aiden must have told him. Not every detail, he doesn’t know everything himself, but enough to draw a conclusion as to what happened. Enough for Noah to imagine me the night I arrived at Aiden’s, skin raw from cold, blood on my shirt, unable to get words out.
I hate it. Not the fact that Noah cares, just the idea of him seeing me through that lens. Cracked open and pathetic. The man who couldn’t even leave without breaking on his brother’s doorstep.
I want to tell him the truth, that it’s not him that makes this hard, it’s me. That I don’t know how to let anyone close without being afraid.
That, despite everything, I want to try. I don’t want to be like this. I want to be normal.
Instead, my thumbs type the only thing that feels safe. A lie.
Me:Really. It’s fine.
My hands won’t stay still, shaking like I’ve had too much caffeine, though all I’ve done is drown in my nightmares.
Noah:Thanks, Gabe. I really appreciate it. I promise I’ll be a good guest.
Relief and dread crash together. My body still remembers nails digging in, breath hot on my skin, silence choking me where my voice should be. I press my palm over my sternum, feeling the wild thud of my heartbeat, and wonder how I’m supposed to survive someone living under the same roof when I can’t even survive my own head.
I settle back onto my bed and count the hairline cracks in the ceiling again. My shirt sticks to the sweat on my back, the cool pillow warms beneath my neck. My heart won’t settle. It pulses hard and wrong, like it’s learned a new, panicked language over the years and refuses to switch back.
Rain pelts loudly against the window. That usually soothes me. The rain is one of the things I love most about Willowrun. Tucked in the Pacific Northwest, we get plenty of it. Right now, it reminds me that the world is out there while I’m pinned to my bed by a nightmare that never ends.
The apartment door eases open, and I just lie there.
Abbie and Ciarán—right on time.
There’s the soft padding of feet in the hallway, the jingle of Abbie’s giant enamel strawberry keychain that she’s had forever. The bedroom door opens slowly. Abbie’s head appears first,blonde curls piled high, escaping every pin. Her smile is gentle, the kind that doesn’t ask me to be anything but here.
“No pancakes?” she teases lightly, her voice quiet enough to keep from startling me.
I shake my head with a thick throat.
“Bad one?” she asks.
I nod. Talking feels exhausting right now.
They know I still have nightmares sometimes, but I’ve never told them the full extent. I don’t tell them how often they come, how hard they make getting up every morning. I don’t tell anyone that my past makes each day feel like a living nightmare. That some days I’d do anything for it to end.
She lifts her eyebrows in silent question. It coaxes the smallest smile out of me. I shift and lift my left arm in invitation. She moves across the room on socked feet and slides in carefully, fitting herself into the crook of my arm like she’s been shaped for it.
Her weight is nothing and everything. I feel the steady heat of her against my side, the slow metronome of her breath teaching mine how to move again. She doesn’t ask for details. She never has to. Her hand finds my sternum and rests there, grounding the harsh beating of my heart.
This is the kind of touch I can bear. I crave it. Offered by someone who loves me. I let it hold me together when my body feels splintered.
Out in the apartment, something clinks, then the soft sound of water. Ciarán’s watering the plants he keeps bringing me; he doesn’t trust me not to neglect them. I don’t blame him, I always let them die. I can’t even take care of myself, never mind a plant, but I do love having them in my space, they bring life. He hums a lilting tune. I picture him in the kitchen, hips rolling to the rhythm, shoulders loose, dark hair swaying. I smile at the image, my heart settling a fraction more, having them here.
He appears in the doorway and leans his shoulder on the frame, taking me in with eyes that sparkle when he’s being wicked and go very soft when he’s not. Today, they’re soft.
“Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” he says, his usual mischief mellowed into something like fond relief. “Shift over. I’m not missing out.” He keeps his voice low, like he’s learned the acoustics of my nervous system.
I lift my right arm without conscious thought. It’s the oldest ritual we have. He flashes me a blinding smile that lands between triumphant and tender, crosses the room, and slides under my arm, careful as he settles against my side. The leather of his pants is cool against the thin cotton covering my thigh. He tucks himself into the crook of my arm and exhales. I feel it deep within me.
We make a strange, familiar geometry. Me on my back, Abbie under my left arm, Ciarán under my right. They’re both much smaller than me, they fit so perfectly. We do this when one of us frays. And lately, that’s always me. I feel so frayed, I’m not sure what will be left when I finally come apart.
The feel of them pins me to the present. My pulse slows. The room smells like Ciarán now, his tropical coconut scent taking over. I breathe all of it in and remember that my body belongs to me. That I got out. That I’m safe.
