Fuck.
Something inside me snaps tightly—sharp, protective, and angry in a way I don’t know how to handle.
I’m out of my chair before I realize it, feet moving instinctively. I stop just short of her, every muscle tense, because touching her feels like a line that shouldn’t be crossed. My hand hovers there anyway, useless, aching to wipe that tear away, to do something besides stand here watching her hurt.
She blinks quickly, brushing her fingers across her cheek as if she’s embarrassed, I noticed.
I lower my voice. “Bells.”
“Thank you for letting me know,” she says, her voice too calm, too controlled. Then she ends the call.
The silence that follows is deafening.
“What’s wrong?” I say softly.
She shakes her head, eyes shining. “Nothing. I just… I need to go.”
Bullshit.
She moves quickly. Too quickly. Books are shoved carelessly into her bag. Papers crumple. Pens clatter. Her hands shake so badly she drops a highlighter without noticing. This chaos is messy and disorderly, nothing like the girl who lines things up and color codes her life.
I grab her wrist.
“Stop,” I say, voice rough and scraped raw. “Stop and fucking tell me what’s wrong.”
She becomes still under my hand.
For a moment, I think she’s going to pull away, rip herself free, and shut me out like everyone else does. My grip loosens instinctively because the last thing I want is to scare her.
She doesn’t move.
Her breath stutters once.
Then she breaks.
“My dad,” she chokes. “He’s in the hospital. He collapsed at work and they think he had a stroke.”
I pull her into me without hesitating, as if there were never another choice. Her face presses into my shoulder, and her hands fist in my shirt, gripping the fabric like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.
She cries hard. Ugly. Honest. The kind of crying that doesn’t care who hears it. Her body shakes against mine, and it hurts me in a way I wasn’t ready for. I wrap my arms around her tighter, anchoring her there, my chin resting on the top of her head.
Fuck.
This isn’t something I can fix with a joke, a grin or my smart mouth. This is fear, love and the kind of pain that crawls under your skin and stays there.
I hold her. That’s it. That’s all I have. I don’t tell her it’ll be okay because I don’t know if it will. I don’t ask questions. I stay. Let her cry into me. Let her take whatever strength I have and use it.
Someone clears their throat nearby.
I look up, eyes sharp and pissed, and glare so intensely they immediately turn away and act like they were never there.
Good.
I glance toward the desk where the Librarian is watching. I fix her with a look that says, “Try it and see what happens.” If she fucking moves or says a word while my Bells is falling apart in my arms, she’s going to hear about it.
She turns back to her work.
Good.
