I sit there for a moment longer to allow the present to bleed back in.
My head falls to the back of the chair, and I close my eyes. For a moment, I pretend rest is possible. I pretend that if I stay still long enough, the thoughts won’t find me again tonight. But I know they will. Grief is tattooed into my bones like something I never agreed to hold onto but can’t seem to put down.
It’s not fucking fair.
Finally, as if I’ve snapped out of the temporary bubble, I push myself out of the chair and out my front door. The night air hits my face as soon as I step outside, and I inhale in an effort to clear some of the smoke from my head.
Looking up, I see the light over the apartment door is on.
I cross the driveway and take the stairs two at a time before I can talk myself out of it. I raise my fist, knocking once because if I don’t see her now, I’m not sure I’ll make it through the night without breaking something I can’t put back together.
Not because she can fix it.
Not because she can erase the past.
Because if I’m alone right now, I’m going to drown in it.
I fucking need her.
More than I ever thought was possible.
The door opens, and Scottie stands on the other side with confusion on her face at why I’m knocking on her door. She’s probably wondering why I’m not at the bar tonight. My eyes scan her up and down, and she’s wearing sleep shorts and a thin tank top, her hair loose around her shoulders. The sight of her hits me harder than any memory ever could.
“Tucker?” she says softly. “Is everything okay?”
No.
Yes.
I don’t know.
“I just—” I swallow. She moves back to let me in, and I step inside. Looking around the space, it’s smaller than I remember, and it smells like her shampoo and clean sheets. I face her again, my chest rising and falling. “I need you.”
Her expression softens instantly and she doesn’t evenhesitate. Scottie moves toward me and I fall into her arms. My forehead hits her shoulder, and I don’t even try to hold it together anymore. My breath shudders at the same time my legs weaken. We both fall to the floor on our knees. Her arms under mine, holding me up as if she can carry my weight effortlessly.
“I’m here,” she says, moving her hands to find the back of my neck.
“I can’t—” The words don’t come out as I shake my head against her. “I can’t do this alone.”
She pulls back, taking my face in her hands. My vision blurry from the tears refusing to breach the surface. “Look at me,” she says calmly, warm hands bracketing my face to hold my head upright.
But I close them, not wanting to see the look on her face.
Not wanting to feel embarrassment for this weakness. As much as Ineeded her, the guilt for bringing her into this is suddenly too much.
“Hey,” she says again, gentle but firm. I open my eyes, taking her in. “There you are,” she murmurs low, like she’s found me in the dark.
I open my mouth, but… “I can’t breathe.”
“Yes, you can,” she says, her thumb stroking my jaw. She moves to circle my wrist with her hand, and she brings my palm to rest on her chest, right over her beating heart. She mirrors the movement with her palm on my chest. “I’m here, babe. I’m right here.”
My breath catches as the word “babe” slips out of her like it’s natural, like she’s said it a hundred times before this moment. Somehow that small, steady sound cuts through the noise in my head. The panic is clawing at my chest, still tightening its grip around my lungs, but her voice anchors me. Her touch keeps me steady. Her beating heart under my hand reminds me I can breathe again. I drag in a shaky breath and hold it before forcing a long exhale.
“That’s it. You’re here,” she says, leveling her eyes with mine. “You’re safe.”
I’m safe.
I’m here.
