Like I’m afraid if I hold her properly, I’ll break something.
But I can’t stay still.
Not after everything.
The questions claw at me harder than anything I’ve ever felt.
“I need to know,” I murmur, voice rough from the fight, from everything still burning under my skin.
My thumb drifts over her hip.
“I need to know, Dove. My dad…did he. Did he hurt you?”
Her body tightens.
Just slightly.
But I feel it like a punch.
My arms instinctively pull her closer, holding her to me before she can retreat into herself.
“You can tell me,” I whisper, lips brushing her temple. “I’m right here. Nothing gets through me. Nothing touches you. Ever.”
Her breath catches.
I see it in her face before she speaks—whatever she’s holding isn’t just memory.
It’s weight.
It’s survival.
“I…” Her voice fractures halfway through the word.
Her fingers curl hard into the blanket.
I don’t move.
I don’t blink.
I just wait.
It feels like I’m fucking dying all over again.
“No,” she whispers at last.
My chest tightens.
“I was with you,” she says, voice breaking further now. “When you… when you died.”
The world goes quiet.
Not metaphorical.
Quiet.
Like everything in me stops obeying sound.
My arms lock around her without permission.
