He doesn’t let me fall apart alone.
He turns me into him, one arm wrapping around my back, the other coming up to cradle my face, forcing my gaze to his, and God—God—he’s right there, his eyes clear, alive, focused entirely on me.
“I’m here,” he says, firm now, grounding in a way nothing else is. “Look at me, Sera. I’m right here.”
My hands fist in his t-shirt, gripping tightly as if he might disappear if I don’t hold on hard enough, my chest heaving as I search his face, memorizing every detail, every line, every breath.
“You died,” I whisper, the words fragile, terrified. “I watched you die.”
His expression shifts, something darker flickering beneath the surface, but his hold on me only steadies further, stronger, unyielding.
“Like that could keep me from you,” he replies quietly, his forehead pressing to mine, his voice lowering like it’s just for me. “Our story has only just started, Dove.”
That breaks something open inside me.
A sob tears free, full and raw, and I collapse into him, my face buried against his chest as his arms tighten around me, holding me together when I can’t do it myself.
“I thought—” My voice shakes violently against him. “I thought I lost you.”
“You didn’t.” His hand moves up and down my back. “You never will.”
I cling to him harder at that, breathing him in instead of the blood, forcing my body to recognize what’s real—him, his warmth, his heartbeat beneath my cheek, the solid strength of him wrapped around me.
Alive.
Slowly, painfully, the panic begins to loosen its grip, softened by his presence, by the way he holds me like he’s not letting me slip back into the nightmare.
After a while, when my breathing evens just enough, when the trembling eases into something quieter, he tilts my chin up gently, his thumb brushing over my lips, still tender from him, still swollen.
His gaze softens, something protective settling deep within it.
“Come on,” he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to my mouth. “Let’s get you back to bed.” I feel the moment his grip tightens, the second he realizes this is more than just a nightmare, more than something that will fade with time. And I hate that he can see it, hate that he can feel how deep this goes, because even as he holds me together, I can feel myself coming apart in his arms…
And this is the part of me he can’t save.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Trey
Just pretend - Bad Omens
She slips out of my arms like something fragile trying not to break under pressure, and I feel the loss of her immediately—the heat of her gone, the weight of her presence, something vital pulled clean out of my hands before I can tighten my hold and keep her there.
“Sera…”
Her name comes out quieter than I intend, rough with sleep and threaded with something far more dangerous, but shedoesn’t answer, doesn’t even hesitate, just keeps moving until there’s space between us. Real space this time, not just physical, but something heavier, something I can’t close with a step forward or a reach of my hand.
She turns her back to me, not sharply and not in anger, but far more deliberate, far more cutting, like she knows that if she looks at me, I’ll see everything she’s trying to hide, and that thought alone lands deep enough to knock the breath from my lungs.
The bedroom is dim, lit only by the muted bleed of city lights filtering through the balcony doors, casting her in shadow and silver, my t-shirt hanging loose from her frame, the hem brushing her bare thighs while her hair falls in wild, untamed waves down her back, and even like this, especially like this, when she’s coming apart right in front of me—she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
But she’s shaking.
I see it in the rigid line of her shoulders, in the way her arms fold tightly across her stomach as though she’s trying to hold something in, as though if she loosens her grip for even a second everything inside her will spill out and drown her where she stands.
My chest tightens at the sight, because I know that feeling, I know what it is to carry something that doesn’t belong to the present, something that lingers long after it should be gone, but this is different—a memory, a collection of thoughts and worries and doubts. A gift, tied up with a bow, courtesy of a history of abuse and a whole catalogue of other trauma, signed off by that fucking cunt.
Gideon.
