I can tell because his silhouette hasn’t shifted against the curtain. And because the air still feels… safe. Guarded.
After a while, I speak.
Quiet. Like if I raise my voice, the moment will break.
“You ever get scared?”
He doesn’t turn.
Doesn’t flinch.
Only says, “Every day.”
Something in my chest twists.
Because I believe him.
Because under all that bravado and bravura and blaster swagger, there’s something else.
Something real.
“I used to think he was the worst thing that ever happened to me,” I murmur.
Silence.
“And now I think the worst thing was surviving him.”
Still, he doesn’t move.
But his voice—his voice is soft steel.
“You didn’t survive him,” he says. “Youdefiedhim.”
My throat tightens.
I close my eyes.
The couch cushion shifts as I curl tighter into it, pulling the blanket to my chin like it could block out the past. But it doesn’t.
He does.
He blocks it all out—just by standing there.
And for once in my life…
I let him.
The sun’sjust starting to burn off the fog when I crack one eye open.
It’s not the kind of morning that sneaks in sweet and gentle. No birdsong, no warm beam of light painting romantic lines across the hardwood. No dreamy stretches or cartoon animals folding my socks.
It’s real.
Quiet.
Heavy.
The kind of quiet that makes your ears ring.
