He nods, throat working. “Okay.”
“Say it,” I beg. “Please.”
“If it gets bad again,” he whispers, “I’ll find you, Noah.”
His face finds the crook of my neck, fingers digging into my back as a desperate whisper falls onto my skin. “Don’t let go.”
“Never.”
I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I need you.
He’s home. That’s all that matters.
Home, and mine to care for.
Mine to love, no matter what.
45
GABE
The duvet is warm against my legs. My body aches in strange places. My throat is raw. My fingers are stiff and sore. The hoodie I’m wearing is soft. Too big in the shoulders.Noah’s. The cuffs smell of clean linen, cedarwood, and something that’s always just him. My pulse jumps when I remember him dressing me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the water comes back in pieces. The roar of nothing and everything in my ears. My lungs wanting to give out before my body did. Mud under my palms. Then—heat. The warmth of a shower. A cloth sliding over my skin. Hands prying mine open. Lips at my wrist, my shoulder, my chest. Not sex. Something more, someone bringing me back to myself piece by piece.
I force myself up and pad barefoot to the bathroom.
The mirror shows ringed eyes, pale skin, and a scrape on my face I don’t remember happening. The scar on my cheek looks brighter than the rest of me. Usually, I look away quickly for fear of getting stuck on it. Today I hold my own gaze, taking stock ofthe man in front of me. This is who I am now, someone lost, but also someone who wants to find their way.
Ciarán’s voice floats through my mind:I can give you a name if you decide you want to go. She’s nice, doesn’t push.
I’d brushed it off then. Told myself I was dealing with my problems. I was fine. Yesterday proved I’m not fine. Nowhere near it. But I know with startling clarity now, I want to be.
I never want anything like that to happen again. I felt like I lost myself completely in that moment, like I had no control.
I grab my phone and send him a message. The reply is almost instant. The text saying,I’m proud of you,that follows the contact details, makes mixed emotions rise. Guilt. Regret. Hope.
I splash cold water on my face. When I look at myself in the mirror again, the feeling of shame that usually accompanies seeing my scar isn’t there. It’s just me looking back.
When I step into the kitchen, Noah is already there. Sitting at the table, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, hands linked together, pressed to his mouth. His shirt is creased. His hair sticks up every which way. He looks like he didn’t get much sleep last night. His eyes land on me, and his whole body changes—shoulders dropping, breath releasing.
Pained relief. Raw and unhidden shows on his face. I did that. I put that look on his face. And I’ll do everything I can to make sure it doesn’t happen again.
I fill the kettle and take out two mugs, feeling Noah’s eyes track me the whole time. The sound of pouring water the only sound between us. I set one in front of him. His hand brushes mine when he takes it.
I sit across from him.
I wrap my hands around the mug, and the heat seeps into my palms, loosening the stiffness in my fingers. My throat burns at the first sip. Across from me, Noah’s eyes keep flicking to my face, then away. Checking without wanting me to catch him. Histhumb strokes the side of his mug like he’s keeping himself from fidgeting. His foot taps under the table before he stills it, then it starts again.
If I truly want to start healing, then I can’t hide anymore. Not from him. Not from myself.
“Ciarán gave me a name.”
His foot stops moving. His head lifts. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask what I mean. He waits.
I pick up my phone, and my thumb trembles as I find the number. My chest tightens, but I press call anyway, brining it to my ear. I don’t leave the table. I don’t leave him.
Iwon’tleave him.
