The two words carried weight that made my stomach drop.
I thought of that childhood photograph in his study. The hand on his shoulder that looked more like restraint than affection. The way he'd flinched when I mentioned his father.
My anger wavered.
I hated that it wavered. Hated that violence and fear and pain were somehow stitching us together when they should've been tearing us apart.
I pressed harder on the accelerator.
The lake house materialized through the trees—all glass and steel and cold perfection. I pulled into the circular drive too fast, tires crunching on gravel.
Gideon reached for the door handle with his left hand. Struggled with the latch.
I was around the car before he could stand, gripping his good arm without thinking, steadying him when he swayed.
"I can walk," he muttered.
"Shut up."
His eyes widened fractionally.
Then—impossibly—he almost smiled.
I helped him through the front door, his weight heavy against my shoulder—not because he couldn't support himself, but because he let me bear it, anyway. That alone made my chest ache in ways I couldn't name.
The house was dark and silent. Cold in that expensive way that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with emptiness.
I guided him toward the kitchen, flipped on the overhead lights with my elbow. The brightness felt harsh after the violence outside, exposing too much.
I pulled a chair out from the table. The legs scraped against tile.
"Sit."
He did.
No challenge. No sardonic comment about me giving orders in his house. No fight. Just quiet obedience that unsettled me more than any command he'd ever issued.
My hands moved on autopilot, gathering supplies I barely remembered him having. A bowl from the cabinet—I filled it with ice from the dispenser, the cubes tumbling and cracking against stainless steel. Clean dish towels from a drawer I'd opened exactly twice. The first-aid kit he'd bought weeks ago, still pristine in its plastic case, tucked beneath the sink.
For emergencies, he'd said then.
I hadn't realized he meant this kind.
When I returned to the table, he was watching me. Eyes dark and too focused, tracking every movement like I might vanish if he blinked.
I set everything down carefully. Pulled another chair close. Sat.
His injured hand rested on the table between us—swollen, discolored, fingers bent at angles that made my stomach turn.
I reached for it slowly, giving him time to pull away.
He didn't.
The first touch of ice against his knuckles made him wince. Just barely—a tightening around his eyes, a sharp inhale through his nose—but I saw it. Pain he was trying to hide. From me.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
The words escaped before I could stop them. Honest. Raw. Unnecessary.
