58. Win
58
Win
T alking about this is like chewing glass.
Shards slice my gums. Crack my teeth. Cut my cheeks.
Having Remy with me, holding my hand and silently crying is both a blessing and a curse. It doesn’t matter that he already knows. That he watched it. Hearing my perspective has to be agonizing. If the roles were reversed, I’d be arrested for murdering the sick fucks with my bare hands.
But that thought reframes everything.
If I’m willing to go to war for him, why can’t I do it for myself?
Consequences and perceptions attempt to silence me, but a newfound determination sweeps them aside. I’m done letting the past ruin my life. I want to move on. So I tell the detective as much as I can stand. The bullying. The beatings. The stalking. The act itself.
And it's agony— like nails peeling open infected, rotting wounds. And it’s exhausting. So draining that I’m a deflated husk by the end of it. And it’s cathartic. Like the twisted relief of watching blood spill from a cut .
Remy wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into him and kissing my forehead as Detective Montague ends the recording. I assumed he’d be a hardass, but he’s actually pretty chill. Blowing out a sigh, he rises from the chair placed in front of us two hours ago.
“Thank you again, Win. I know this isn’t easy for you. We’ll keep you updated on the case and of course, if you’re even the slightest bit concerned about your safety, we can provide additional protection.”
“Thank you,” I murmur. “But I think I’m ok for now.”
He nods and shakes my hand first, then Remy’s. But doesn’t let go. “It’s reassuring to know Win has such a supportive partner. Take care of each other, alright?”
Hazel eyes swim with tears. “Of course.”
As Detective Montague retreats, intrusive thoughts creep in.
A drink would take the edge off. Or maybe a smoke. Some weed will chill you out. Help you sleep. You deserve a little break from reality.
“I think I need to go to a meeting.”
The hand rubbing my back pauses. “O-ok,” Remy stammers. “Yeah. Ok, let’s go—”
He pushes off the couch.
“Baby…”
“I just have to stop by the apartment to feed Mitz and get some gas—”
“Remy.”
“It’ll be quick—”
“I need to go alone.”
Time stops.
Neither of us breathes. Through my lashes, I peek up at him. My teeth tear at a cut on my bottom lip. “I know you want to help but this… this is something I have to do on my own. Like your de pression; I can comfort you and support you through it, but ultimately it’s a war I can’t fight for you. This battle is mine.”
His cheeks glisten with fresh tears. “I get it.”
Throat aching, I raise my hand, grasping his fingertips. “I know you do. It’s one of the things I love most about you.”
A quivering smile.
I’m on my feet, arms thrown around him. He catches my waist and buries his face in my neck. Clinging to each other, we break. But this time, we break together .
“I love you,” he rasps. “So much. And I’m sorry, I just— I’m so fucking scared of losing you again.”
“I know,” I croak, clawing his shoulder. “But you’re not losing me. Ever. You’re stuck with me.”
Smearing his tears into my neck, he chokes, “Forever?”
“Forever.”
“Promise?”
I pull back, brushing my lips over his. “Promise.”