She chokes out at one point, "They hate you. My dad said—he said you?—"
They know about us.
The hairs on my arms rise.
I press my lips to her temple. "Stop. You don't have to tell me tonight."
She sniffles, then pulls back, pinning her glassy, swollen eyes on me. "You're not mad I told them?"
Fuck!
I shake my head. "No. I'm worried about you."
Her shoulders sag, like she's been holding them up with sheer willpower, and finally let go. She cries harder then, quieter but deeper, like something old has been cracked open.
I hold her through all of it.
Eventually, the sobs slow. Her breaths even out. The tension in her body eases just enough that I know she's running on fumes, past adrenaline, panic, and straight into emotional exhaustion.
I softly order, "Come on. Let's get you to bed."
She nods without lifting her head.
I lead her into the bedroom, then help her out of the dress and pull one of my shirts over her head. It swallows her, and she clings to it like it's armor.
I tuck her under the covers and slide in behind her, pulling her back against my chest.
She starts crying again, but it's smaller this time, broken little sounds she tries yet fails to keep quiet.
I tighten my arm around her waist and lace my fingers through hers. Then I press my mouth to the back of her neck, murmuring, "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. Breathe with me."
Eventually, when her tears have soaked my pillow and arm, she calms. At some point, she whispers, barely audible, "I thought love would be enough."
The words land heavily in my chest.
I say quietly, honestly, "For me, it is."
She lets out a small, broken sound that's a half sob, half relief. She grips my hand tighter.
A few minutes later, her breathing deepens. Her body slackens. Sleep takes her the way it always does when she's cried herself past the edge.
I don't sleep the entire night.
I lie in the dark, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything I know without knowing the details. The certainty in my gut tells me exactly how her conversation with her parents went. And I stay still all night, afraid that if I move, she'll wake up and fall apart again.
When morning comes, my alarm buzzes softly on the nightstand. I silence it immediately. Blue doesn't stir, but her face tightens for a second, as if, even unconscious, she senses separation.
I kiss her hair gently.
She stirs, sniffles, and blinks a few times. "Hey."
I kiss her on the lips. "Hey."
"Did last night happen, or was it a nightmare?" she asks.
I feign a smile. "It happened."
Her eyes fill with tears.
