He and I are due a catch-up. Or a rematch. He’ll turn up sooner or later—he can’t help himself. Men like him never can.
And the worst part?
He’s living rent-free in both our heads.
At least in Sera’s I can try to reassure her. I can make promises. But the unquiet moments don’t show up where they’re convenient. They cycle. They return. They slip in when everything should feel safe.
At least… that’s how it used to work with my mom.
Shit.
That thought lands heavier than I want it to.
This does remind me of my mom.
Was it caused by my dad?
Or was there more to it?
Fuck.
Why can’t everything be black and white? Simple. Clean. Easy to hold.
Why does it all have to rot in the grey instead?
I take a step toward her before I can stop myself, instinct driving the movement, every part of me wired to close the distance, to pull her back against me, to remind her that she isn’t alone in this, but I force myself to still because she doesn’t turn, doesn’t reach for me, doesn’t do anything except stand there like she’s bracing for something I can’t see, and in that moment the truth settles heavy in my chest.
I don’t know how to fix this.
This is fucking bullshit.
I want to prove to her I’m fine. I’m right here. I want to deal with this with logic.
But I know.
I fucking know this won’t help.
I don’t know how to fight something that lives inside her head.
I can hit and get hit, but I can’t tear Gideon out of her memory, can’t silence whatever voice he left behind, can’t kill something that exists only in the aftermath of what he did to her, and the helplessness of that realization stings.
My hands flex uselessly at my sides, tension coiling through me with nowhere to go, nowhere to land, because for the first time there’s no clear target, no enemy I can put down to make this better, just her and the way she’s trying to carry this alone.
Say something, you fucking idiot. Don’t just stare.
“Sera,” I try again, softer now, forcing the rough edge out of my voice even as it threatens to break through, “look at me.”
Great, that will reach her, give her a command.
She doesn’t.
Her head dips just slightly, enough to tell me she heard me, enough to tell me she’s choosing not to.
I drag a hand through my hair, pacing once, twice, like movement might burn off some of the pressure building inside me, like it might give me something to do other than stand here and watch the woman I love unravel piece by piece in front of me.
“I don’t—” The words catch, frustration spiking sharp and immediate as I try again. “I don’t know how to help, if you won’t talk with me.”
The admission feels foreign, wrong on my tongue, but it’s the truth all the same, and I have nothing else to offer her but that.
