And that’s it. That’s the moment that breaks me. A single, hot tear slips free before I can stop it, tracing a path down my cheek.
He swears under his breath, a quiet, frustrated sound. He raises his hand, catching the tear with his thumb and gently wiping it away.
“I know I’m shit at this,” he mutters, his eyes on my cheek. “I don’t know how to do the comforting thing.”
A wet, broken laugh slips out of me. It’s a raw, ugly sound—half sob, half amusement. “You’re doing fine.”
He studies my face. “But you should know if anyone could fight through stubbornness alone, it’s your dad,” he says, a faint ghost of a smile touching his lips. “He raised you.”
I laugh again, a shaky, watery sound that’s more of a sob than anything else. “That’s not how medicine works.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says firmly. “He’s not done.”
The certainty in his voice is a fragile thing, and it’s everything I need right now. It’s a flicker of light in a suffocating darkness.
“I’m here,” he says, his gaze burning into mine. “You don’t have to carry it by yourself.”
My chest aches with a sharp, sudden pang. Because this boy who once measured his worth in how many girls wanted his cockis kneeling on my kitchen floor trying to figure out how to hold my grief without dropping it.
Before I can overthink it, pull away, and lock everything back inside, he stands and pulls me up with him.
His arms wrap around me, hesitant at first, a question lingering between our bodies. When I don’t pull away and instead sink into him, he holds me tighter, tucking my head under his chin.
I bury my face in his T-shirt and just breathe him in. His hand moves up and down my back in a slow, slightly awkward rhythm, like he’s following a set of instructions only he can hear.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into my hair.
And that’s all it takes.
A raw, ragged sob tears from my chest, then another, and another. The tears come hot and rapid, soaking the front of his shirt, but he doesn’t pull away. He simply holds me tighter, a steady, silent presence in the storm, letting me fall apart in his arms.
I stare at the ceiling, wide awake. The red numbers on my alarm clock blink 2:17 a.m., then 2:18. I count the seconds between each flash, each breath a tight knot in my chest. My heart won’t slow down—a frantic, panicked bird beating against my ribs.
I roll onto my side, then my back, then the other side. The sheets are twisted around my legs, a suffocating tangle. The whole house feels too big and too quiet.
Jace is downstairs, just down the hall. Sleeping in a bed that is probably too soft for him after years of sleeping on that sagging mattress in his run-down trailer.
Before I can talk myself out of it, before the voice of reason can tell me what a stupid fucking idea this is, I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My feet hit the floor, and I push myself up, moving on pure, desperate instinct.
The hallway light is off, but I know my way around this house in the dark. I walk slowly, my bare feet silent on the cold floors, careful not to make a sound, even though there’s no one here to wake except him.
His door is slightly open. I pause outside, my hand hanging near the frame. For a moment, I almost turn back. This is stupid… insane. I’m not afraid of the dark. I’m afraid of the silence, of the vast, empty space inside my own head.
I slowly push the door open. It opens smoothly and silently.
The room is dim, illuminated only by the weak glow of the streetlight outside filtering through the curtains. He’s lying on his back, one arm thrown over his head, the blanket twisted around his waist. His bare chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm.
I step inside, the door clicking softly shut behind me. For a second, I just stand there, my heart pounding against my ribs. For a fleeting moment, the pale light from the window hits the ink on his chest. The word seems so out of place on him, on the boy who built his reputation on not caring about anything. I wonder how old he was when he first got it done, when he felt the need to permanently etch that word onto his skin as a constant, desperate reminder.
This is such a bad idea. I should walk back out and let him sleep. But my chest is caving in, and I don’t know how to fix that on my own tonight.
I move before I overthink it.
The mattress dips under my weight.
He stirs instantly. His entire body tenses, adopting a predator’s stillness. He doesn’t even breathe for a second.
“Bells?” His voice is a rough, sleep-thick whisper in the dark.
