But curled against me on the floor, Emmett doesn’t look like a man fighting to heal. He looks like a man serving a sentence.
My chest aches so sharply I can barely breathe around it. Because every warning he’s given me suddenly feels terrifyingly real.
Not about leaving. Not about time.
About the fact that somewhere deep down, Emmett doesn’t believe he deserves a future at all. And the worst part is, I already know walking away isn’t an option for me anymore.
“I don’t have much of a choice this time,” he mumbles, lifting his head just enough for me to see the torture in his eyes.
Lost, I stroke his cheek, waiting to see what he offers.
He swallows thickly and looks away. “My superintendent has made therapy a condition of my return to work.”
The confession cuts deeper than it should.
He doesn’t owe me complete transparency, but I should’ve known this ran deeper than he’d shown me. Emmett’s past is something that still owns pieces of him.
Everyone around him can see that Emmett needs support to deal with this, but it’s plain as day how much the idea of talking to someone distresses him.
“What do you need right now?”
He doesn’t meet my eyes. “I should probably head up to the loft. I won’t fall back asleep, and I don’t want to keep you up.”
Taking his chin between my fingers, I dip my head, forcing him to see me. “Leaving guarantees I stay up worrying. So if it’s me you’re concerned about . . . stay.”
His teeth roll over his lips, and I can see him stacking his bricks back up, so I add. “If you need to leave, leave for you. If you need the space to process, I won’t stop you, but if you’re using me as an excuse. Don’t.”
Something in him unlocks at that. His shoulders sag and his muscles relax under my touch.
The truth of it is, I’m not sure I’ll be able to go back to sleep after seeing him like that either. But if he stays and I know he’s okay—or as okay as one can be after something like that—maybe I’ll at least rest.
His grip on me shifts, and he stands, moving us both back to the bed and settling me against his chest.
“For a guy who prides himself on being alone, you excel in the big spoon position,” I say, a little unsure of where to go from here.
His chest rumbles against my back in what feels like a laugh, even if there’s no sound to accompany it.
“Only with you.” His voice sounds distant, like part of him is still trapped by the past.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything he just showed me. I don’t know where to go from here, only that he feels fragile in my arms in a way I’ve never experienced before.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” It’s just as hollow.
“You don’t have to answer . . . I know you said you don’t remember . . .” I let my voice trail off and try to turn in his hold, but his grip tightens on me.
Not facing this conversation head-on, I guess.
That he’s willing to have it at all feels like progress, so I still lift my hand and snake it behind me to grip the back of his neck. “You said last time it was about me? Do you remember that one?”
He tenses behind me, and I sink my fingers into the hair at the base of his skull, pulling myself closer, letting him feel that I’m right here.
“Every fucking second.”
The way he grits it out is like a hot poker across exposed nerves. I don’t even know where the pain comes from, but it consumes me. Hearing the words from his mouth, seeing these moments of vulnerability from him just a few times—they’re snapshots of the agony he lives with every day.
“Will you tell me?”
