And God help me ...the way he says my name undoes me all over again.
He moves closer.
Not touching me—just close enough for the air between us to shift, for something inside me to tighten and loosen at the same time.
“Mara,” he says again, softer now, almost careful with my name.“You’re allowed to grieve.You’re allowed to feel something for who Lina used to be.And I don’t believe for a second that your father understood what he was saying.People project their own failures onto whomever is closest.”
He hesitates, then adds, “And a car accident is just that.An accident.You didn’t cause it.You didn’t ruin anything.”
Something breaks open inside me.The loud sob comes before I can swallow it back.
Then another.
And suddenly I’m crying harder than I have in years, shaking like something is being pulled from deep inside my chest—something old, something buried, something I never let myself feel fully.
“I shouldn’t be crying this hard,” I manage between breaths.
“It’s allowed,” he says, firm but quiet.“It’s called grieving.And I know what happens when you bottle it up for years and pretend the pain doesn’t exist.Maybe this is your chance to let some of it out.”
“I don’t have time for this,” I murmur, wiping at my face even as more tears fall.
“You have to make time,” he says.“Before it tears you apart.You read about my fucked-up life.That’s what happens when you never deal with anything and pretend you’ve lost nothing.”
My breath catches.
He watches me for a long moment—studying me like he’s wrestling with something he doesn’t usually let himself feel.Something he’s tired of fighting.
And then ...something in him shifts.It’s like a quiet surrender in his eyes, like he’s finally choosing the thing he’s been holding himself back from.
He moves closer on the couch, closing the space between us inch by inch.His knee brushes mine.His shoulder lines up with my arm.His breath warms the tiny distance left.And then—without hesitation, without second-guessing—he slides an arm around my waist and gently pulls me across the space, guiding me onto his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
When his arms settle around me, the whole world tilts.There’s no stiffness in him, no uncertainty.His exhale brushes through my hair, and for a heartbeat, it feels like he’s bracing both of us.Like he’s telling me, without speaking:Stay—just stay here.
And I stay.
My forehead drops to his shoulder, and the second I touch him, a sob tears out of me—raw, loud, impossible to contain—and he holds firm, unmoving, like he was waiting for the moment I finally let myself fall apart.
He gathers me closer, as if he’s done this before in the hours where no one else bothered to see him either.
“I got you,” he murmurs against my temple, tightening his hold like he means every syllable.“I’m right here, let yourself feel.”
My hands fist in his shirt because if I let go, even for a second, I’m afraid I’ll fall apart in ways I can’t come back from.
He goes completely still, leaving me with nowhere to fall except into him.
“If you need to cry like this all night,” he murmurs, his voice brushing my ear, “I’ll hold you.”
Something splits open in me at that—something I’ve kept locked behind years of being responsible, of being the strong one, of tucking my hurt away so it wouldn’t spill onto anyone else.
It rushes through me so fast it almost robs me of breath.
“I shouldn’t need this,” I whisper into his chest, ashamed and wanting and exhausted.
“Everyone needs this,” he answers softly.“Trust me.I would’ve given anything for someone to hold me like this when my life was falling apart.”
His hands slide up my back slowly, as if he’s taking some of the ache with him.Or maybe sharing it so I don’t have to carry it all alone.
“You’re safe,” he murmurs.“Right here.With me.”
