I don’t know how to reach her when she shuts me out like this.
I don’t know how to fight something I can’t see.
I don’t know how to take this from her.
And I fucking hate it.
Still, I step closer. Slower this time, careful not to spook her. Like approaching something that might bolt if I make the wrong move. My gaze stays locked on her back, on the rise and fall of her breathing, on the tension she’s trying—and failing—not to show.
She can see me. She can hear me. Feel me.
Fuck. Make a choice then. Stay. Run. Say something. Anything.
Or walk away. Give her space. Let her figure it out.
No.
No, I can’t.
I want to fix this. Calm her. Help her. Reassure her.
But even as I think it, I know…
I fucking know this isn’t something I can logic my way through.
“He’s not here,” I say quietly, forcing steadiness into the words even as they scrape on the way out. “He’s not touching you. He doesn’t get to—”
My voice falters as anger surges again, darker this time, because it isn’t entirely true, is it, when he is touching her right now, just not in a way I can stop.
My hands curl into fists before I force them open again, dragging in a slow breath as I close the final distance and stop just behind her, close enough to feel the warmth of her body without touching her, giving her the space to choose, because it has to be her choice.
“I can see it,” I murmur, my voice lower now, stripped of everything but truth. “You’re trying to hide it, but I can see it, Dove.”
Her shoulders tense, a small crack in the control she’s holding onto, and it’s enough to pull me forward that last inch.
My hand lifts, hovering for a fraction of a second before settling gently at her waist, not pulling, not trapping, just there, something real she can take if she wants it.
“He’s still in your head,” I say, the words quiet but unflinching. “And I hate that I can’t rip him out of there for you.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and heavy, filled with everything she isn’t saying, everything I can’t fix.
My thumb moves slowly against her side, a small, grounding touch.
“I can’t fight this for you,” I admit, the truth settling deep and immovable in my chest, “and that’s the one thing in this world I don’t know how to live with.”
Another breath, another tremor through her body, and something inside me locks into place.
Resolve.
“But I’m not going anywhere,” I continue, my voice steadying, deepening into something unbreakable. “Not when you shut me out, not when you’re scared, not when he’s still out there.”
My hand tightens slightly at her waist, just enough to remind her I’m here.
“I can’t fight the war in your head, sweetheart, but I will fight every real thing in this world for you, and I’ll never let you face any of it alone.”
Morning comes without mercy, pale light bleeding through the curtains in a way that feels almost offensive after the night we’ve had, after the way her body shook in my arms and the way her voice broke around memories I would burn the world to erase, and I lie there wide awake, staring at the ceiling while Seraphina sleeps curled against me like she’s carved herself into the only place she feels safe, her head tucked beneath my chin, her arm wrapped tightly around my waist as though even in sleep she’s afraid I might disappear again.
She didn’t push me away… she didn’t cast me out… but, fuck. Not hearing her is torture.
