Someone will shatter the fragile peace.
The possibilities spiral through my mind, each one worse than the last. Things escalating. The room collapsing into chaos.
My stomach twists into a sickening knot. The room’s edges begin to swim. A familiar, sharp ache blooms behind my ribs.
I hate this.
I hate my body for this. For the racing heart, the caught breath, the mop handle trembling in my grip. My mind knows better, but my hands won’t listen. They shake anyway. They always have.
I hate that I am here again, every muscle locked, every sense straining for the first sign of violence.
I can’t let this escalate.
I can’t be the cause of a scene.
I can’t get air into my lungs.
The panic surges, a deafening wave that drowns out all other sound, all other thoughts.
And a single word tears from my throat, hoarse and desperate, before I can think to contain it.
“Stop.”
All three of them freeze.
Kieran is the first to move. He steps back instantly, his hands coming up slightly, palms open—a silent signal of retreat, an apology for the tension. As if he understood the exact trauma that my plea came from.
His eyes meet mine. They are soft. They are sorry. They are the eyes of someone who has just realized that his protection was becoming its own kind of threat.
Maeve doesn’t push. Doesn’t retort. Doesn’t engage Julian further. Instead, she slips her hand into mine.
Her fingers find the spaces between my fingers. The touch is light, almost tentative, as if she is asking permission. When I don’t pull away, she tightens her grip.
It’s warm.
The warmth moves from her palm into mine, up my wrist, into my chest. Small. Reliable. A hand that will stay.
My fingers tighten around hers. I didn’t know I needed a lifeline until I grabbed one.
Julian stares at our joined hands, his expression frozen in stunned disbelief.
I draw a shaky breath and look at him. “What do you want to talk about?”
His eyes dart again to Maeve and Kieran. Irritated, disbelieving that they are witnessing this. That I have allowed them to. That I have chosen them over him.
“Shouldn’t this be a private conversation?” he mutters, the words tight.
“No.” My voice comes out clear, unhesitating. “They’re staying. If you have something to say, say it here.”
Julian’s jaw tightens. For a second I can almost see the words he wants to spit out—the protest, the demand, the assertion of his rights as a husband. But then he swallows it.
“Fine,” he concedes, the word short and strained. “At least sit down. Please.”
Thepleaseis an afterthought.
Maeve gives my hand a subtle, reassuring squeeze. The squeeze saysI am here.I am not leaving.You are not alone.
Kieran stands behind me. His body is still. His attention fixed on Julian.
