“Camille,” I said quietly, steady. “If you’re carrying it alone, then it’s already too much. Let me share some of it.”
For a long moment, she stared at me, unsure if I meant it. Then, her lips trembled, and the words began to spill.
“He wasn’t always like that. When we met, he was charming. Fun. But… he drank. More than I realized at first. And I was so young when I had Zeke, I just pushed myself to overlook it and try to make things work. But then he turned to abusing pills, and things just got worse.” Her fingers twisted the blanket in her lap, the one covered in faded flowers. “By the time I was pregnant with the twins, I barely recognized him. The anger, the shouting…it became more than just words.”
My chest tightened, heat crawling under my skin. I didn’t need the details—I already hated the son of a bitch. The thought of anyone yelling at her, hurting her, using that same soft voice she saved for her kids made my fists curl.
“I stayed too long,” she said, voice cracking. “I thought I could fix him, maybe if I just loved him enough, he’d stop. But he didn’t. It just kept getting worse. And then one day…” She trailed off, tears filling her eyes again. “One day, I packed everything I could fit into the car, buckled the kids into their car seats, and I just… drove. I didn’t even tell him where. My mom met me halfway and helped me start over here.”
She broke then, covering her mouth with her hand, trying to push the sobs back down. “And I still feel guilty. Like I failed them. I should have known better, done better, protected them sooner.”
I wanted to tell her she was wrong. That leaving took more courage than staying ever could. That guilt had no place on her shoulders. But the words stuck in my throat, tangled up with the anger burning low in my gut.
I couldn’t stand the guy. He left bruises on her heart, made her question her own worth, and abandoned kids who deserved the damn world. Every mark he’d left on her lived under my skin now, turning my calm into something sharp. I didn’t care what it cost me. I’d burn the world down before I let him hurt her, or them, again.
“I don’t understand him,” I said finally, my voice low, rougher than I meant. “I don’t understand how anyone could walk away from you. From them.”
Her eyes snapped up to mine, wide and glassy.
“You didn’t fail them, Camille,” I added, softer now. “You saved them. You saved yourself.”
Her lip trembled, and before I could say more, she leaned into me again, burying her face into my chest. This time, it wasn’t desperate; it was surrender.
I wrapped my arms around her tighter, steady, promising silently that I’d never be the man who left her to cry alone in a small room filled with dead flowers and unfinished laundry.
Because if I had anything to say about it, she would never carry that weight by herself again.
Chapter Thirty Eight
Camille
The silence pressed in once the lights were out, heavy enough that I could hear the uneven rhythm of my own breathing. Too much silence had never been kind to me because it left room for old memories, for the voices I tried to keep buried. So without thinking, I grabbed the remote from the nightstand and flicked the TV on. The soft glow filled the room, muted voices drifting from some late-night sitcom rerun. I didn’t even care what show it was. I just needed the noise to keep me from drowning in the quiet. To keep my thoughts from drifting to the days I’d awoken with bruises, or crying kids that quickly triggered yelling.
Hunter didn’t say anything. Didn’t tease. Just adjusted on the bed, his weight shifting slightly as he leaned back against the headboard. I stayed curled under the blanket, eyes fixed on the screen, though I wasn’t watching.
My body betrayed me before my brain could catch up. Slowly, passively, I let myself lean toward him, as if gravity had decided for me. My shoulder brushedhis arm, tentative, testing. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move away. Instead, he angled slightly, enough that his solid frame was there if I wanted it. A quiet offer. So I closed my eyes, breathing him in. His smell was fresh and grounding, the kind of scent that made the tightness in my chest loosen.
“You’re alright,” he murmured, voice low, steady. Not demanding. Not fixing. Just… there. “You don’t have to hold it all together tonight. I’ve got you, Beautiful.”
My throat burned, but no tears came. I was too tired, too wrung out to cry again. So I let myself sink into him, cheek resting lightly against his shoulder, the steady rhythm of his breathing pulling me in.
And then I noticed it. His heartbeat. It was steady, but intense. Each thud echoed against my ear, against my own uneven breaths. It wasn’t just a heartbeat; it felt like the walls I had built around myself, the ones I thought were impenetrable, breaking down one by one. I tried not to think about how dangerous that was. How terrifying it felt to lean into someone after years of convincing myself I didn’t need to. But right then, wrapped in his warmth, breathing in cypress and lime, I couldn’t stop myself. His chest rose and fell beneath my cheek, anchoring me. His presence was unyielding and impossible to resist, and in his arms I felt safe.
I shifted slightly, allowing my fingers to brush against the fabric of his shirt. The urge to pull back, to apologize for needing too much, flickered through me. But before I could, his hand moved, resting lightly on the blanket near my side. Just close enough to remind me he wasn’t going anywhere.
“You’re alright.” He murmured again, his voice low and certain.
My eyelids grew heavy, the soft flicker of the TV blurringinto nothing. My body was heavy now, exhaustion pulling me under, but I fought it, afraid this fragile peace might vanish if I closed my eyes. I felt his fingers brushing lightly against my curls. Slow. Gentle. Almost absent-minded, like he wasn’t even aware of the comfort it gave me. He twisted a strand around his finger, then let it fall, only to smooth it back again. The simple rhythm was as grounding as his heartbeat beneath my ear.
Every time he touched my hair, the knot of tension in my chest unraveled a little more. My breath evened out, eyelids growing heavier, the world blurring at the edges. I should have pulled back. I should have said something to break the spell, reminded him, or maybe reminded myself that this was temporary, that he didn’t owe me this kind of tenderness. But I didn’t.
Instead, I let my cheek press deeper against his chest, a quiet giggle slipping out of me at the way he toyed with my curls.
He chuckled softly in return, the sound rumbling beneath me. “What’s funny?” he murmured.
“Nothing,” I whispered, words already thick with sleep. “Just… feels nice.”
And with that, the last of my walls lowered. His hand kept combing gently through my curls, safe in the warmth of him. And that night I drifted off not in fear, not in loneliness, but with someone reminding me, simply by staying, that I wasn’t too much.
