“Show me the rest,” he said quietly. “I know there's more. I want to see all of it.”
I didn't ask how he knew. Just reached for the neckline of the hospital gown with my free hand and pulled it aside enough to show him the edge of the tattoos on my chest. The ones I'd gotten specifically to cover the scars that ran across my ribs in thin white lines that had faded over the years but never fully disappeared.
His breath caught when he saw them, and I felt his hand move from mine to trace the edge of one scar where it peeked out from under the ink.
“From before?” he asked.
“Yeah. Different methods, same goal.” I let the gown fall back into place. “The tattoos were supposed to make them go away. Cover up the evidence so I could pretend it never happened. But they're still there underneath. Still part of my history whether I want them to be or not.”
“How many times?” The question was barely audible.
“The attempts? Just the one that actually got me hospitalized. But the scars—” I stopped, trying to figure out how to explain the difference between wanting to die and just wanting the pain to stop. “Self-harm was how I coped before I found healthier ways to deal with the noise. The scars are from that. From years of not knowing how else to make the feelings manageable.”
Rook pulled back enough to look at me properly, and the devastation on his face made my chest ache. “Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because who the fuck wants someone with a suicide attempt and a history of self-harm in their past? I didn't think adding 'also struggled with wanting to die for most of my twenties' was going to make me more appealing.”
“Soren—”
“I know. I know that's not fair to you. I know I should have told you.” I was crying again, tears streaming down my face faster than I could wipe them away. “But I was so fucking scared that if you knew the whole truth you'd realize I was too much work and leave. And then you pulled away in Montreal and I thought I was right. Thought you'd figured out I was too damaged to be worth the trouble.”
“That's not why I pulled away.” His voice was rough with emotion he wasn't bothering to hide anymore. “I pulled away because I was terrified of how much I wanted you. Because letting you get that close felt dangerous in ways I didn't know how to handle. It wasn't about you being too much. It was about me being too fucked up to accept the intimacy I'd been asking for.”
He leaned down and kissed my forehead, then my temple, then the corner of my eye where tears were still falling. Each kiss felt deliberate, gentle, like he was trying to prove through touch that he wasn't going anywhere.
“I'm sorry,” he said against my skin. “I'm so fucking sorry for making you feel alone in this. For not being there when the custody shit happened. For pulling away when you needed me most. I fucked up, Soren. I know I did. And I'm going to spend as long as it takes making it right.”
“You don't have to?—”
“I want to.” He pulled back to look at me directly. “I want to be here. Want to know all of it, even the parts that hurt. Want to help carry whatever you're holding so you don't have to do it alone anymore. But I need you to stay, Soren. I need you to promise me you'll fight to stay alive even when it feels impossible.”
“I don't know if I can promise that.” The honesty felt like ripping open a wound, but I owed him the truth. “I can promise I'll try. That I'll ask for help when the noise gets too loud. But I can't guarantee that some day the demons in my head won't win anyway.”
“Then promise me you'll try.” His hand found mine again, fingers lacing together. “That's all I'm asking. Just promise you'll keep trying, and I'll be here to help you do it.”
I looked at him—at the beard that suited him and the exhaustion in his eyes and the way he was holding my hand like letting go would break him—and felt a thing shift in my chest.
He'd stayed. Through the worst of it, through the fear and the uncertainty and the very real possibility that I might not wake up, he'd stayed. That had to mean he meant it when he said he wanted to be here.
“Okay,” I said finally. “I promise I'll try.”
He kissed me then, soft and careful like he was afraid I might break. It tasted like salt from both our tears and relief and the fragile beginning of trust I'd thought we'd destroyed in Montreal.
When he pulled back, he kept his forehead resting against mine. “I'm going to tell you everything. But not here. Not while you're still recovering. Once you're out of the hospital and we're somewhere safer, I'll explain it all. I promise.”
“Okay.” I believed him, which was new and terrifying and felt like hope I didn't deserve yet.
“Your siblings are safe,” he said, and I felt tension I hadn't realized I was carrying release slightly. “Poppy and Micah are staying with my parents. They're being taken care of, fed, looked after. Talia's been at work but she's also been handling things at the apartment. They've all been here. Waiting for you to wake up.”
The thought of my siblings sitting in this hospital waiting room wondering if I was going to survive made fresh tears start falling. “They saw—when you found me, did they?—”
“No. You were already gone when Talia called me. They didn't see you like that.” His thumb brushed across my knuckles in a motion that felt grounding. “But they know what happened. They know you tried to—they know. And they've been terrified.”
“I need to see them.” The words came out urgent, desperate. “I need to tell them I'm sorry, that I'm okay?—”
“You will. Once the doctor clears you for visitors. But Soren—” He waited until I was looking at him directly.
“Thank you.”
