“Briar,” he whispers. It’s my name shaped by grief.
I swallow air that scrapes raw. After placing my hands on my own head, my fingers knot in my hair, and jerk lightly to show how I was pulled. The motion sends a tremor through my whole spine. I flinch at my own memory.
Rafe’s hands rise automatically—but he stops in mid-air, letting me see the intention, not the contact.
“Did he…?” He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to.
I nod once.
He inhales through his nose, sharp and pained, but steadies it. He won’t scare me with his anger, so he cages it behind his ribs.
I draw a door next. A bolt. A small figure behind it. Then I curl my shoulders inward, arms wrapped around myself, miming waiting for footsteps that meant hunger or hands or commands I couldn’t refuse.
Rafe’s voice is rough. “You lived through that.” Not a question. A vow of acknowledgment.
Setting the pencil down, I place both palms over my heart. Then I reach and take his wrist, guiding his hand to the same place on my chest.
Here. Breathe with you near. Why I… to thank you.
His thumb moves in the smallest arc, grounding me. “I see you. All of you.”
No man has ever said that without wanting something in return. My eyes close. For the first time, the darkness behind my eyelids doesn’t feel threatening.
Rafe rises slowly and holds out a hand. I follow because the air around him feels steady, and my body is tired from too many years of bracing.
He ladles broth into a wooden bowl and brings it to me, kneeling so we’re eye level. The scent warms the space between us. He breaks off a piece of soft bread and dips it, waiting until it cools before lifting it toward my mouth.
I tense. Feeding always costs me.
But Rafe doesn’t lean closer. Doesn’t force the food to my lips. He waits until I open my mouth on my own. The choice feels small. It isn’t.
I take the bite. My throat pulls tight, expecting the sting of a hand or a command for more. Nothing comes. Only another piece of softened bread, held steady in his fingers.
My hands wobble when I reach to feed myself, so the piece falls. I gasp, scrambling to pick it up, heart pounding at the thought of wasting what he gave me. Before I can touch the floor, his hand cups mine—warm, steady, grounding.
“It’s alright,” he says quietly. “You’re allowed to drop things.”
Allowed. The word lands heavy.
I let him feed me the rest. Each small bite settles deep, strange and peaceful, easing something inside me one knot at a time.
When he brushes a curl of hair from my face, I lean into the touch before I realize I’m doing it. My body reacts faster than my fear for once. His fingers move gently, sweeping leaves I didn’t know were still tangled at the ends.
He stands and fills a wooden tub in the corner with warm water. The steam rises. My chest locks. Baths were weapons before—cold water, harsh scrubbing, hands gripping too tight. Then what always came… after.
He must see the panic in my eyes because he kneels beside the tub and dips his hand in first, showing me the warmth. His voice stays low.
“No one forces you into anything here. You move when you choose.”
But my body doesn’t understand choice yet. Shaking my head, I back away until my shoulders hit the wall.
Rafe rises slowly, walks to me with open hands, and crouches. “Let me help you. Just help. Nothing more.”
I nod once, barely. He guides me to the tub and holds my hands while I step in. The water touches my skin. My body jolts, but his grip tightens—not restraining, anchoring. I cling to his wrists until the heat feels less dangerous.
When I sink down, he kneels beside me. He wets a cloth and runs it gently over my arms. I tremble, swallowing every sound, afraid noise will bring punishment.
His hand pauses. “Sweet girl,” he whispers, “you’re allowed to make noise.”
