The reason he’s so broken.
With that in mind, I lift my knee back onto the bed, gentle as I crawl across the mattress and to his side. He’s still flailing, and I have to dodge a rogue arm as I sit back against his headboard, nudging my own arm behind his neck.
My movement causes him to roll right over, his head falling onto my lap as his heavy arm drapes across my thighs. I run myfingers through his curls, hushing him again. “I’ve got you. It’s okay. You’re safe, I promise.”
Finally, he exhales a shuddering breath, hand tightening on my thigh. He turns his face to me, and his eyes are finally closed. His breathing evens out, and his lips part slightly as heavy huffs of air filter through, though, not as frantic or panicked as they were before.
I continue brushing his hair while my eyes trace the outlines of his face. He’s so beautiful; it feels like an eternity since I’ve allowed myself to savor it—savor him. His long lashes cast shadows over his freckled cheeks, strong nose, and perfect lips.
Tears pour from my eyes like rainfall now, watching the person I once loved beyond words find rest in my arms. I fight to quell my broken sobs, not wanting the rise and fall of my chest to disturb his finally found sleep.
“How did we get here, huh?” I ask the darkness cast over us. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” I brush my thumb over his temple. “I’m so sorry.”
His hand slides up my thigh and over my hip, tucking beneath the hem of my shirt and resting on the bare skin of my stomach. The caress is warm and familiar, like coming home. His entire bed smells like him. Rain and pine. Everything I used to associate with comfort and safety and belonging, it swallows me. I feel blanketed in it—his touch and presence. It’s the kind of wholeness I know has been missing from my life, the kind of feeling that might just heal me.
I’m flooded with memories of all the ways he’s saved me throughout my life.
At thirteen when I bled through my pants at school, and everyone knew I’d started my period. He tied his sweatshirt around my waist before wrapping me in his arms and telling me it’d be okay.
At fifteen when I was stood up for prom, he snuck me out of the house in my dress and danced with me under the stars in our field of violets.
At nineteen when he rubbed my back as I cried myself to sleep after my brother left for his first World Surf Tour, and I knew I wouldn’t see him for months.
At twenty-one when I self-published my first book, and it felt as if he were the only person who truly understood my excitement.
Every time his brother broke my heart, August pieced it back together, keeping my soul intact, repairing every fracture and healing every wound.
His constant assurance, quiet confidence, unbreakable love—it saved me time and time again. In return, I failed him. Broke him. Left him.
It wasn’t my intention; I was blinded by my grief and guilt, too focused on wallowing in my own pain and all the reasons I didn’t deserve recovery. I never considered he might be doing the same, never thought about how my absence would’ve destroyed him.
Maybe, deep down, I thought he deserved the hurt too. Maybe that was my grief talking—I don’t know anymore.
All I know now is that as I study his beautiful face, he’s still my best friend. The love of my life. He never stopped being either of those things to me. I only stopped being worthy of them. Worthy of him. I thought that notion had been clear, but I can see now that I was wrong.
I watch him, and I’m stricken with the realization that the person who sleeps before me now is merely shattered remains of the boy who once loved me so fiercely, and I’m the monster who took a sledgehammer to his soul.
A soft groanrattles through my consciousness, and as I float back to reality, I realize how fucking sore my neck is.
I match the sound with my own, forcing open my exhausted eyes, blinking against the daylight. Fuck. I fell asleep in August’s room.
I’m still sitting mostly upright, my back rigid and aching against the headboard. My legs are numb beneath his weight. I drop my head. August is still lying across my lap, his fingers flexing against the skin at my hip, and it’s impossible to ignore the low-burning blaze that sets off in my core at the feel of his touch.
He groans again, eyes fluttering heavily as he stirs. He blinks rapidly, and when his gaze catches mine, his thick brows furrow. Sliding off my lap, he pulls himself into a sitting position beside me on the bed, scrambling to the edge of it as he tilts his head in confusion.
His lip trembles, and I almost think he’s going to speak, but he doesn’t. I wonder if he doesn’t know what to say, or if he can’t decide if I’m really here. I wonder if he’s still lost inside his dreams.
I wonder how often he dreams of me.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Did you get some sleep?”
His eyes aren’t terror-stricken as they were last night. He appears somewhat rested, his hair mussed from my fingers running through it for hours. My hand twitches, wanting to brush his curls from his forehead, but I freeze, thinking better of it, placing my hand atop my thigh instead.
August watches my movement, rearing back, almost as if any touch from me would be venomous. His lip curls, emerald eyesnarrowing, unnerving in their cold assessment. “What the fuck are you doing?”
His sharp words slam into me with enough force to send me flinching, like a physical blow right to my guts. Whatever remnants of the soft boy who slept in my arms is gone, replaced by anger and accusation.
“You…you were having a night terror. I…” My voice shakes as I try to explain myself, because he stares after me like my mere existence is a violation. “I heard you, and…” I tremble as I force the rest of the sentence from my mouth. “You looked…sounded... It scared the fuck out of me.”
