“No.”
“I know him,” she breathes.
The realization hits her hard, and I see the shift in her expression, fear turning into something deeper.
Recognition.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
Her grip tightens again, but this time she pulls me closer instead of pushing me away. For the first time since she got here, she’s not fighting me.
Her forehead presses briefly against my chest, her breath uneven.
“I thought I was imagining it,” she murmurs. “Like someone was already there before I even got here.”
“You weren’t.”
“I should have handled this before it got this far.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I should have,” she insists, pulling back just enough to look at me. “I should have seen it.”
“Stop,” I say.
Her eyes flash. “Don’t tell me to?—”
“Stop blaming yourself.”
Silence falls between us, but this time it is different, not as sharp, not as suffocating.
“He’s not getting close again,” I tell her.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
Her lips part like she is about to argue, but she doesn’t.
This time, she believes me.
Or at least she wants to.
Her hands are still on me, her grip loosening slightly but not letting go, and neither of us moves to break it.
“You’re shaking,” I murmur.
“I’m not.”
I tighten my hold at her waist just enough to feel it. “Yes, you are.”
Her breath hitches, and then she exhales slowly, like she’s giving in to it.
“Don’t let him take me,” she says quietly.
Something in my chest tightens at the words.
I step closer, closing the last of the space between us, my other hand bracing against the counter beside her, caging her in without trapping her.
