I dragged in a shaky breath, my fingers holding onto his forearms—like the action alone was the only thing keeping me from sinking.
“I was nineteen.” The words scraped out of me, rough and hollow. “I couldn’t afford to keep the lights on. I couldn’t afford to feed us.”
My chest caved in on the last word, and Dean crushed me to his chest, his arms wrapping around me like he could hold all my pieces together. His lips brushed my ear, soft and steady, shushing me—not to silence, but to soothe.
“I made the most difficult decision of my life,” I whispered. “I… I gave him up for adoption.”
Saying the words aloud felt like peeling back skin—exposing raw flesh. “He was four weeks old. And I loved him more than anything.”
I took a shaky breath, willing myself to continue. “But I couldn’t give him the life he deserved. I couldn’t—I wasn’t?—”
Dean’s breath broke, a sound so low it vibrated against my cheek. His hand curved behind my head, holding me as if he could shield me from my own memories.
“Em,” he whispered, voice fierce and gentle all at once. “Hey. Look at me.”
I lifted my face, barely enough to meet his gaze.
“It’s okay,” he said, his thumb brushing the tears away from my cheek. “You did what you needed to do. You chosehim. That’s the bravest, most unselfish thing I’ve ever heard of.”
Before I could fall apart again, Dean reached past me and turned off the shower, the sudden quiet ringing in my ears. Then he stepped back, found a towel on the counter, and wrapped it around me—slowly, tenderly—his hands steady as he dried my arms, my trembling shoulders, the back of my neck.
And then, without hesitation, without a single wasted breath, he slid one arm under my knees and lifted me into his arms. He held me against his chest as he stepped out of the bathroom and into the warm light of the cabin.
Then he carried me across the room and laid me gently onto the bed, stretching out beside me before pulling the blankets over the both of us. His warmth wrapped around me as he tucked me into the crook of his arm, holding me tight until my shivers stopped.
“What was his name?” Dean asked softly.
My throat seized, but I forced the word out for the first time in eleven years, my voice splintering on the sound of it. “Griffin.”
Dean’s arms tightened instantly, pulling me deeper into his chest as though he could shield me from the ache. “That’s a good name,” he murmured, the words falling soft and reverent, wrapping around me like a bandage I hadn’t known I needed. His hand stroked a steady path along my spine. “You’re a good person, Em.”
Hot tears fell to my cheeks, and I shook my head, desperate to reject any words of praise, to push them away before they split me open.
But he didn’t let me pull away.
Dean’s hands came up, framing my face with a steadiness that unraveled something deep inside me. His voice was barely abreath. “Em,” he murmured, “I won’t pretend to know what that was like for you.”
His thumb swept a tear from my cheek, slow and careful, like he was afraid he might hurt me if he moved too fast. “Most people never have to make a choice like that. Most people never carry that kind of weight.”
He swallowed, lowering his forehead to mine.
“But you did, and I’m here for you, listening. To every word you want to share with me.”
Something inside me buckled—deep and sudden—I gripped his forearms as a quiet, broken sound slipped out of me.
Dean’s breath hitched at the noise—enough that I felt it against my cheek. His hand slid to the back of my neck, his thumb tracing a slow, steady circle, anchoring me.
For a moment, we just breathed together.
His chest rising against mine.
Mine shaking against his.
He didn’t rush me. Didn’t fill the silence.
He just stayed with me. Holding me. And when he finally spoke again, his voice was soft enough to shatter me.
“What did he look like?” he whispered.
