My throat clenched.
And maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was weak. But the truth was… I didn’t want to walk out either.
Not yet.
So I sank back down, slowly, shakily and watched his shoulders drop like I’d just handed him oxygen.
He wasn’t touching me. Wasn’t talking anymore.
Just breathing. Watching. Making sure I was real. And somehow, that scared me even more. Because under all that guilt, all that desperation was someone who cared too much, too late.
And I didn’t know if I was strong enough to handle that kind of care again.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Joshua
The sound of the pan sizzling was the only thing grounding me.
The only thing keeping my hands from shaking again.
I stood at the stove, hair still damp from the shower, hoodie clinging to the back of my neck. The smell of eggs and toast filled the kitchen, something normal, something quiet, something that didn’t fit with the storm still wrecking me from the inside.
Behind me, the TV murmured softly.
A movie I didn’t recognise, just noise to fill the silence between us. But she wasn’t watching it. She just sat there on the couch, blanket around her shoulders, eyes on the screen but unfocused, staring through it.
Phone in her hand. Power bank attached. Thumb not moving. Her new cast—one I called in my dad’s private doctor for an hour ago—rested awkwardly on her lap.
Every few minutes, she adjusted it as if it hurt, but she never made a sound. And every time she shifted, every time she moved even an inch, my chest clenched.
The spatula trembled between my fingers as I flipped the eggs. I didn’t want her to hear my voice. Didn’t want to make her flinch again. Didn’t want her to think I was talking just to feelbetter about myself. But I also couldn’t handle the thought of her walking out that door, vanishing like everyone else.
So I cooked.
Something stupidly simple.
Eggs. Toast. Juice.
I placed it all on the counter and looked at her again.
Still staring at the screen. Still lost. Still here.
She didn’t have to speak for me to know what she was thinking. She was counting the minutes until she could leave. Until she could escape the man who made her cry, then begged her not to.
I leaned against the counter, pressing the heel of my hand to my eyes.
God, what the fuck am I even doing?
Cooking for the girl I broke. Watching her like a fucking creep because I was terrified she’d slip through my fingers again.
I told her everything hours back; things I’d never said out loud before. The crash. The water. My mother’s face. The way her silence tore open something I thought I’d buried. And she looked at me like she couldn’t tell if she should run or cry for me.
Maybe both.
The worst part? I don’t blame her.
If I were her, I’d run too.
