She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move.
I back away, giving her distance, and climb into my own bed. The fire crackles. The wind howls against the cabin walls. Her breath trembles across the room in uneven waves.
Minutes pass.
A soft rustle breaks the quiet. I open my eyes.
Briar crawls across the floor on hands and knees, shadows moving with her. She pauses at the edge of the bed, chest heaving, waiting for permission she thinks she needs. The trembling in her limbs isn’t fear of me—it’s fear of choosing wrong.
“Come up if you want to. I won’t touch you.”
She climbs in fast, as though hesitating would bring consequences. She curls against my side, tucking herself under my arm like she’s done it a thousand times. My whole body goes still, every instinct awake and held in check. Her little pants hit my ribs in hot bursts. Her fingers clutch the fabric of my shirt, then release, clutch again.
I keep still, giving her only warmth.
She finally falls asleep that way—shaking until the shaking finally stops. The weight of her head on my shoulder feels good. Too good.
I don’t realize I drift off too until something warm and wet pulls me awake.
My breath punches out of me. Not from pleasure or shock, but from grief so sharp it buckles me.
Briar is between my legs, under the covers, her mouth wrapped around me in small, rhythmic movements—soft, cautious, automatic. Her hands tremble on my thighs. She isn’t seeking pleasure. She isn’t choosing intimacy.
She’s soothing herself with the only tool she was ever given to survive.
My heart breaks so hard I feel it crack. And beneath it, another hit—hard, unwanted—and I shove it down.
“Briar,” I whisper, voice raw. “No.”
She freezes mid-movement, and her whole body goes rigid. I reach down fast, not to restrain her—only to stop what she believes is required. I gather her into my arms and pull her upright, away from my body, cradling her trembling form to my chest.
She fights in tiny jerks, panicked breaths hitting my collarbone. Flinching and bracing, she waits for the blow that never comes. Waits for the punishment. For the pain she thinks she earned.
“No,” I say again, firmer now, but still soft. “Sweet girl… no. You don’t owe me anything for your safety. Not from fear. Not from this. That is a basic human right. That is the code we live by.”
She shakes her head wildly, hands climbing up my torso in frantic apology. A broken sound claws out of her throat, small and scared.
I cup her face between my hands, thumb brushing the tears she doesn’t know she’s crying. “Look at me.”
She won’t, so I lower my voice until it becomes the safest thing in the room.
“You don’t owe me your mouth to earn your life.”
Her lips quiver. Confusion floods her expression—panic crashing against relief, because nothing in her world prepared her for refusal that doesn’t come with violence.
“If you ever touch me again,” I whisper, “let it be only because you want it. Not because someone trained you to survive that way.”
A soft, wounded sound leaves her. I hold her until her shaking eases, rocking her enough to keep her grounded.
“You’re safe,” I soothe into her hair. “Even from me.”
And slowly—slowly—her body softens against mine. A girl unlearning what she was forced to become.
She falls asleep against me once the trembling slows—her breath uneven but calmer. I hold her as long as she needs. I stay until her muscles stop jerking, until her throat goes quiet again, until the panic drains into exhaustion.
When I’m certain she’s sleeping deeply, I ease her down onto the bed. Her fingers twitch once when I pull away. A small whimper escapes her—not fear this time, but the kind of softness that breaks me in ways I don’t have words for.
Tucking the blanket around her, I step back before my emotions get loud enough to wake her. The moment the cabin door closes behind me, my knees almost buckle.
