“I could’ve?—”
She stops. Swallows. Her throat works like the rest of that sentence is sitting there, heavy.
I don’t ask her to finish it. She doesn’t need to.
“I didn’t run,” she says. “I won’t again.”
There it is.
What she really means.
I reach over and take the bottle from her hand, set it on the nightstand.
Then I take her hand again.
Letting her know through touch that I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.
“No,” I say. “You didn’t.”
Her breath shifts and her face softens. “I’ve been running for a year,” she says. “From him. From everything. From… myself, I guess.”
Her gaze flicks to mine. “I didn’t think I could stop.”
“But you did. Last night.”
“Yeah,” she whispers, sniffling and rubbing a sleeve over her cheek. “I did.”
I lean back against the headboard and tug her gently with me. She folds into my side like it’s second nature.
Her head rests against my chest. My arm goes around her automatically. Not thinking. Just… right.
Her breathing is uneven at first. Then it slows, matching mine. My hand moves over her back in slow passes. She exhales, melting into me.
“I don’t feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin anymore,” she murmurs.
“Good.”
“I hate that feeling.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
I huff out a quiet breath. “Yeah.”
She tilts her head back just enough to look up at me. “When?”
“Calls,” I say. “Bad ones. Ones that stick.”
Her gaze sharpens slightly. “Like tonight?”
“Yeah.”
I don’t elaborate. I don’t need to.
She studies me for a second longer. Then she settles back against me. “Guess we’re both a mess, huh?”
I almost smile. “Guess so.”
