Emma reaches for a bottle on the counter—her leave-in conditioner—and works a small amount through her hair.
We move into the bedroom, both of us wrapped in towels. Emma puts on one of my t-shirts that she's claimed as her own while I pull on a pair of spare boxers I keep here.
We climb into her bed together, the full mattress forcing us to lie close. Not that I'm complaining—I want to hold her right now, to feel her against me, to remind myself that despite everything that happened today, we still have this.
She settles against my side, her head on my chest, one leg thrown over mine. I wrap my arm around her shoulders, my other hand finding its familiar resting place on her stomach.
"Better?" I ask, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
"Mmm," she murmurs, her voice already heavy with exhaustion. "Thank you for washing my hair. That was... so nice."
"Anytime."
We lie in silence for a while, the only sound our breathing and the occasional distant siren from the street below. My mind won't stop replaying David's face, his words, the way Emma crumpled when he walked out. But I need to be strong for her right now. Need to find some way to ease her pain.
"I love you, Emma," I whisper into her damp hair. "And I promise you, everything is going to be okay."
She shifts slightly against me, her breath warm on my skin. "How can you be so sure?"
"Because we have each other. And that's enough." I tighten my arms around her, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. "We're going to get through this together."
Emma makes a small sound—half agreement, half exhaustion—and nestles closer. Within minutes, her breathingdeepens and evens out as she drifts into sleep. I lie awake a little longer, my mind still racing with everything that happened today.
I force myself to breathe slowly, matching my rhythm to Emma's. Tomorrow will bring new challenges. New battles. But for tonight, she's safe in my arms.
Chapter 20
Emma
I've been awake for an hour, staring at the ceiling, listening to Grant breathe beside me. He's still asleep, one arm draped across my waist.
It's been two days since my father walked out of my apartment and out of my life.
Forty-eight hours of existing in a fog where nothing feels quite real. I've cried until my eyes burned, slept fitfully, let Grant hold me while I fell apart over and over again. He's been incredible—bringing me food, sitting on the couch with me and rubbing my feet, just being present without trying to fix anything.
I slide out from under Grant's arm carefully, not wanting to wake him.
I pad into the bathroom. My reflection in the mirror is a disaster—hair tangled, puffy face, dark circles stamped under my eyes like bruises. I look exactly how I feel.
Wrecked.
I splash cold water on my face, trying to shock myself into some semblance of normalcy. It doesn't work.
"Emma?"
Grant's voice, rough with sleep, comes from the bedroom.
"I'm here." I dry my face and emerge to find him sitting up, his hair disheveled, concern etched across his features.
His eyes sweep over me, assessing. "Did you sleep at all?"
"Some." I slept maybe three hours total, in fragmented chunks interrupted by dreams of my father's face. "I'm going to my place to get some work done."
The words surprise me as much as they surprise him. I hadn't consciously decided this until right now, but suddenly it feels urgent.
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Grant swings his legs out of bed, already moving into caretaker mode. "You could use another day to rest. To process?—"
"I've processed." I gently cut him off. "Grant, I can't just... sit here anymore. I need to do something. Get back to feeling like I'm still?—"
