Before We Were

59. He Wont Hurt You Anymore

CHAPTER 59

HE WON'T HURT YOU ANYMORE

NATE

I can't believe what's unfolding right now. Here, against this worn oak table, stands the girl who's been etched into every atom of my existence. Not just in my thoughts—in my fucking bloodstream. Everything about right now feels primal and possessive, her hands digging into my shoulders like she's afraid I'll vanish. Each brush of her lips against mine rewrites everything I thought I knew about desire. It’s like someone set off fireworks under my skin, electric currents racing through every nerve ending.

Kissing her feels like coming up for air after drowning for years, and I'm gulping her in desperately. The distant hum of street traffic filters through the windows, but it might as well be on another planet. All that exists is this moment, this girl, this consuming need that's burning me alive from the inside out.

She pulls back just enough to look up at me, and fuck, the sight nearly brings me to my knees. Her eyes are wild, glassy with desire, pupils blown wide in the dim light. A strand of hair clings to her flushed cheek, and my fingers itch to brush it away, to feel more of that silky skin that's making me lose my goddamn mind.

My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I swear she must hear it.

"More." She whispers.

"More what, Len? Tell me."

"I need more,”

The words send electricity racing down my spine, pooling hot and urgent until I'm rock hard and aching for her. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and I track the movement, mesmerized by how something so simple can make me feel like I'm being torn apart.

A laugh rumbles from my throat, dark and heavy with promise. The paradox of her drives me wild—the innocent curve of her cheek against the bold heat in her eyes, the soft sweetness of her smile masking the fierce want beneath. It's like watching an angel decide to fall, and knowing I'm the reason.

My eyes lock onto hers, and I know mine are wild—hungry and desperate, and probably terrifying in their intensity. But she doesn't look away. She meets that intensity head-on, challenging me, inviting me deeper.

She wants me to fuck her. Right here, right now.

Fuck.

My hand slides up to cup her face, thumb brushing over her bottom lip, feeling it tremble beneath my touch. The softness there makes my chest constrict painfully.

She nods, but it's not enough. Not nearly enough. I need to hear her voice, need the words to solidify what's unfolding between us, need to know she's as lost in this as I am.

"Words. I need your words.” I demand, and feel her whole body tremble against mine, the vibration passing into my own chest like we're sharing one nervous system.

"Yes, Nate," she breathes, her voice unsteady and full of need. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, anchoring us both in this moment that feels too good to be real. "Yes, I want you to fuck me right here. Please.”

It’s the please that forces my control to shatter like glass.

A growl rips from my chest, primal and unrestrained, as I crash my lips against hers again. The taste of her—sweet and addictive—floods my senses. She's every dream I've ever had coming true at once, every wish granted, every prayer answered, and the intensity of it threatens to tear me apart.

My hands explore her body like I'm trying to memorize every curve, every dip, every reaction. The way she arches into my touch, her body responding instantly like it was made for my hands, the soft gasp when my fingers trail down her spine sending goosebumps racing over her skin, and the way she whispers my name like a prayer against my lips—it's almost too much to bear.

I press her against the table, feeling the solid wood beneath us, grounding us in this moment that feels too surreal to be happening. Her hands are everywhere—in my hair, tugging just enough to send sparks shooting down my spine; clawing at my back, her nails leaving trails of fire that make me hiss through my teeth; pulling me closer until there's no space left between us, her soft curves molding perfectly against the hard planes of my body.

"Fuck," I rasp, barely recognizing my own voice, hoarse with desire and something deeper, something that scares the shit out of me. “You are going to fucking ruin me Len.”

The words trail off as I bury my face in the curve of her neck, my lips tracing a burning path down to her collarbone, tongue tasting the salt of her skin, feeling her pulse hammering wildly beneath my mouth. The knowledge that I affect her this way—that she wants me as desperately as I want her—is fucking intoxicating.

She moans my name over and over again, the sound shooting straight through me like a bullet, her body arching into mine like she can't get close enough. It's everything—she's everything. A fierce protectiveness surges through me, mixing with the desire until I can't separate them. I want to wreck her and shield her, consume her and cherish her. The contradiction is fucking maddening.

My hand slides lower, fingers tracing the waistband of her shorts, hesitating for just a moment—giving her one last chance to back out before we cross this line. Her hips rock forward impatiently, answering my unspoken question. But just as I slip my hand lower, reality crashes back in with the sound of my name.

"Nate." Nick's voice, clear and unrelenting, cuts through the thick fog of desire like ice water down my spine. "You still here?"

My forehead presses against hers, both of us breathing hard, hearts racing in tandem. Her pupils are blown wide as she looks up at me, lips swollen from my kisses, cheeks flushed pink, hair mussed from my fingers. The sight nearly breaks my resolve—I want to tell the whole world to go to hell just to stay in this moment with her.

I hear the back door slam, and the real world comes rushing back in all its unwanted clarity.

"Shit," I mutter under my breath, forcing myself to step back just enough to put space between us, though every cell in my body screams in protest at the distance.

Nora looks utterly wrecked in the best possible way—hair mussed from my fingers, shirt slightly askew, chest rising and falling rapidly. It takes everything in me not to kiss her again. She fidgets adorably, smoothing her hair and tugging at her clothes, movements awkward and endearing. The way she won't meet my eyes sends a surge of tenderness through my chest.

"You okay?" I say softly, reaching out to tip her chin up until those green eyes, still clouded with desire, lock onto mine. I can't help but smile.

She nods quickly, but her blush deepens, spreading down her neck, and I laugh softly.

"What?"

"Nothing. You're just cute when you're flustered."

"Shut up," she laughs, swatting at my chest without any real force behind it. The sound wraps around my heart like a caress. I never knew love had a sound until I heard her laugh.

I step back reluctantly, my hands aching to pull her close again.

"We'll finish this later," I murmur, voice low enough for only her to hear.

The way her breath catches tells me everything I need to know.

Later . We both know it's inevitable.

My phone buzzes against my thigh, the vibration jarring in the charged air between us. Jay's name flashes across the screen, but I ignore it. I can't look away from her yet—the flush still painting her cheeks, lips swollen because of me.

God, she's stunning, and I'm completely fucked up because of her.

"I'll see you at home," I manage, my voice still rough with need. "I need to check if Nick needs me to stick around for a bit."

She smiles softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. My hand finds her jaw as I lean in, kissing her one last time, slowly. Her lips part beneath mine, hands gripping my waist, pulling me closer like she can't help herself.

Fuck me. Literally and figuratively because I'm about to implode.

It takes everything in me to pull back, my lips lingering a second too long. She exhales shakily, those green eyes meeting mine.

"Go," she whispers with a small laugh, the sound soft and warm. "Nick's waiting for you."

I nod, dragging a hand through my hair in an attempt to steady myself. As she heads for the door, I catch one last glimpse of her smile.

Nick is stacking boxes, his knowing smirk already in place.

"You're not exactly subtle, you know that?" he teases, his tone light but genuine.

I huff out a laugh, shaking my head as I grab a towel to busy my restless hands. The familiar motion helps ground me, even as my mind keeps drifting back to Nora.

"Yeah, yeah. You done?"

Nick nods toward a bouquet sitting on the bar—roses and something purple I can't name, wrapped in brown paper. "Just about. Got a date tonight."

"Kat?" I ask, already knowing the answer. The slight flush creeping up his neck says everything his words won't.

"I don't kiss and tell," he shoots back, though his grin betrays him. The happiness radiating off him is almost tangible. It's good to see him like this, letting someone in.

"Good luck, Romeo." I toss the towel onto the counter, my phone heavy in my pocket as Jay's missed call nags at my conscience.

"Don't need it," he says, but his smile gives away the nerves beneath his confidence.

"You need me for anything else?" I ask, already reaching for my phone. The weight of what I need to do tonight settles in my chest like lead.

Nick waves me off. "Nah, I'm good. Head out."

The mid-afternoon air hits me as I step outside. I pull out my phone to a screen of missed calls and text messages. I'm dialing Jay's number and my knuckles are already itching for what's coming. The phone rings once before he picks up.

"Well, well. He lives," Jay says dryly. "I was about to send a search party."

"I need you to meet me at the pier at six," I cut in, my voice clipped. The warmth from my moment with Nora drains away, replaced by cold purpose.

There's a pause, and Jay's voice drops, cautious. "The pier?"

"I need a favor," I say, my grip tightening on the phone until my knuckles turn white. Images of Evan's phone, of what he did, flash through my mind. "Setting an asshole straight."

The line goes quiet for a beat, then Jay exhales, his voice hardening with understanding. "I'll drive."

When we pull up to Connor's house later that night, the thrum of bass bleeds into the night air, light strobing against windows and spilling across the manicured lawn. It's the same scene it always is—loud music, too much booze, and people pretending their lives are more interesting than they are. But none of that matters. My focus narrows to one target: Evan.

Jay moves through the crowd like a ghost, a wolf in sheep's clothing. He doesn't need instructions—we've done this dance before. Five minutes is all it takes for him to corner Evan, flashing that fake smile that never reaches his eyes. The baggie of pills he holds up might as well be a golden ticket. I hang back by the bar, lighting a cigarette to steady the adrenaline clawing at my chest. The ember glows bright then dims with each drag as I watch Jay work. He leans in close, dropping his voice like he's sharing some precious secret.

Even from here, I can read his lips: "Not here, though. Too many people. Next door in the backyard. The neighbors are out."

Evan, the stupid fuck, grins and downs his drink before heading for the side gate. Jay catches my eye on his way out and gives a barely perceptible nod.

We're on.

I wait in the shadows of the massive oak tree, cigarette burning low between my fingers. I really need to quit this shit too.

Evan stumbles into view, his movements clumsy and erratic. He freezes when he sees me, recognition flashing in his bloodshot eyes, followed closely by fear.

"Shit," he mutters, taking a shaky step back. But Jay's already there, blocking his escape.

Jay lifts the gun—a prop, unloaded, but Evan doesn't need to know that. The panic that washes over his face is almost satisfying. Almost.

"Relax," I say, keeping my voice deliberately calm, razor-sharp. "We're just gonna have a little chat."

"You're fucking insane," Evan spits, but his voice trembles, betraying his fear.

I let out a low, humorless laugh. The sound echoes in the dark space between us. "Maybe. But at least I'm not a piece of shit who preys on underage girls."

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He's frozen now, trapped in the snare he's been setting for others.

"You think you're untouchable," I continue, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. The gravel crunches under my feet. "Rich boy, smooth talker. You get off on it, don't you? The power it gives you, the control you feel when you're terrorizing girls, degrading them. Boys like you grow up to be men who think they can do whatever the fuck they want to whoever they want."

Before he can muster a reply, I drive my fist into his stomach. The force knocks the wind out of him, and he collapses to the ground, gasping like a fucking fish out of water. The sound of his pain is music to my ears.

"Get up," I bark, grabbing the front of his shirt and yanking him to his feet. His glazed-over eyes meet mine, and I shake him hard enough to rattle what little sense he has left before slamming my fist into his jaw. His head snaps back, and he stumbles, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth onto his pristine white collar.

I crouch down to his level, leaning in close to make sure he sees my face when I tell him, "You come near Nora again—you even think about her—and I'll make fucking sure the last thing you ever see is my face before you find out what Hell really looks like. Do you understand me?"

He groans weakly, nodding, but it's not enough. It'll never be enough for what he's done.

"I said, do you understand me?" I growl, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him so close our noses almost touch. The metallic scent of his blood mingles with expensive cologne.

“Y—yes,” he croaks, his voice barely audible over the distant thrum of bass from the house.

I release him, and he crumples back onto the grass, limp and pathetic. Reaching into his pocket, I pull out his phone, holding it up for him to see.

"This? I'm keeping it," I say coldly, slipping it into my pocket.

I head back inside to find Jay who'd walked away after I sent Evan to the ground. The bass reverberates through the floorboards, the music a dull roar in my ears. Instead of finding Jay, I spot Farrah almost immediately. Her body is practically glued to Connor's as they fuck each other's mouths in the corner. She sees me and horror flashes across her face, like I'm some ghost that has come back to haunt her.

She pushes past Connor, who looks pissed—probably nursing a hard-on and wounded pride. I'm about to walk away when she calls my name, her voice cutting through the chaos of the party.

For fuck's sake.

“Get out of my way.” My voice comes out flat, emotionless.

She looks up at me, lips swollen and expression annoyed, like I'm the one interrupting her night. "What are you doing here?"

“Came to see a friend." I keep it short because I don’t have time for her bullshit tonight.

Her eyes narrow, venom dripping from every word. "Your little whore not with you?"

"There's only one of those around here, and she's standing right in front of me." I step closer, my voice deadly calm.

She scoffs, stepping back like I'm something contagious before her palm connects with my chest, shoving me back a step. The touch feels wrong, tainted.

"Better go and finish off your deadbeat fuckboy over there before he finishes himself off in the bathroom." The words come out cold, precise.

The slap comes out of nowhere, sharp and stinging. My head snaps to the side, and for a moment, I stand there, staring at the ground. The party around us goes quiet, dozens of eyes watching the drama unfold. For once, I'm glad they're here to witness this.

"How was that, Farrah?" I say quietly, finally turning my head back to her. My jaw throbs, but I manage a smile that isn't really a smile at all.

"Fuck you, Nate," she spits, her chest heaving with anger.

I laugh, watching how it aggravates her even more that I find this entire thing comical. I step closer so that only she can hear me whisper, "I really hope you enjoyed that, because it's the last time you'll ever touch me."

Her eyes widen, uncertainty flickering across her face. I catch the faint tremble in her hands, and for one fleeting moment, I almost feel sorry for her. But then I remember what she said about Nora, and every ounce of pity vanishes like smoke.

I sink into the passenger seat of Jay's Camaro, releasing a long breath. My head falls back against the headrest as the faint buzz of adrenaline lingers in my veins like static electricity. Jay looks over at me, fiddling with the ignition, trying to find the right words. The dashboard lights cast shadows across his face.

"You all right? Or do we need to have an 'I'll help you move the body' conversation?"

A rough laugh escapes me before I can stop it. Somehow, the idea of Jay casually offering to commit a felony on my behalf is oddly comforting. That's just who he is—the guy who'd help you bury a body and crack jokes while digging the hole. And isn't that what makes a good friend?

"Relax, Norman Bates," I say, running a hand over my face. "No bodies. Yet."

He shifts into gear but keeps darting concerned glances my way. The streetlights paint stripes across his face as we drive, each flash revealing the concern he's trying to hide.

I stare ahead, my voice quieter now. "Thanks."

"For what?" he asks, his tone casual but curious.

"For always having my back." The words feel heavy with everything we've been through together.

Jay laughs, easy and familiar, but there's something warm beneath it. "Careful, Nate. You keep talking like that, you might catch feelings for me."

I smirk, leaning over to shove his shoulder. "Shut the fuck up and drive."

The Camaro roars onto the street, the tires gripping the pavement as the tension in my chest starts to ease.

"You know it's not just me who's got your back, right?"

I glance at him, frowning. "What are you talking about?"

He hesitates, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel because he's nervous. "Look, I wasn't supposed to say anything, but you'd kill me if you found out later."

"Jay…"

He exhales, keeping his eyes fixed on the road. "The dude you're working for, Nick. He paid off Monty's debt and then some. I don't know how much, but it was enough to get them to back off."

The words hit me like a gut punch. Nick, who's already done more for me than anyone has a right to, went out of his way. Again.

"When?" I ask, my voice tight.

"A couple of days ago,” Jay replies, his voice soft with understanding.

Nick never said a word. Not a hint. No expectation of gratitude or payback. Just quiet support, like always. I chew on the thought for a moment before I speak again.

"Hey, I need one last favor."

Jay cuts a look at me, raising an eyebrow. "Need me to take out a life insurance policy for you or something?"

I finally turn my head to look at him, meeting his eyes. "Take me to the police station."

Jay's hand freezes on the gear shift, his eyes narrowing. "Wait, what?"

"Please." It might be the first time I've ever used that word with Jay.

"Do I want to ask why?"

"To finally try doing the right thing," I say in a low voice, thinking of Nora, of Nick.

Jay mutters something under his breath about my tendency to act on impulse, but he doesn't argue. With a resigned sigh, he flicks on the blinker and makes a U-turn, heading for the station. The neon signs blur past us, each one bringing us closer to whatever comes next.

As the glowing sign of the police station comes into view, Jay pulls into a spot and cuts the engine. For the first time tonight, he looks directly at me, his usual smirk replaced with something softer, more serious.

"You sure about this?" he asks.

I nod. The only thing I'm sure of is I'm trying to do better. Be better.

He nods and reaches out, squeezing my shoulder briefly. He doesn't need to say anything else. That one gesture says it all: Call me if you need.

The Camaro's taillights fade into the night as Jay speeds off, leaving me standing alone under the flickering streetlight. I pull Evan's phone from my pocket, its screen lighting up like a window into his twisted world. The idiot didn't even have a passcode, like he wanted to get caught.

As I scroll through his photos, my stomach churns. It's worse than I imagined—photo after photo of girls who can't be older than sixteen, their faces etched with fear and vulnerability. My grip tightens around the device, and for a moment, I want to smash it against the pavement.

But I don't.

He deserves what's coming, and this is evidence that will bury him. I'll make sure of it.

Before stepping inside, I find the photos and video of Nora. The sight of them makes my blood boil all over again, but I don't hesitate. One by one, I delete them, my thumb pressing harder with each swipe. I probably shouldn't be doing this from some legal point of view, but at least she'll be able to sleep easy knowing they're gone. When they're deleted, I exhale sharply, my chest loosening ever so slightly.

I square my shoulders, trying to shake off the lingering adrenaline, and push through the station doors. The cool, sterile air inside smells of coffee, cleaning products, and faint regret. A middle-aged officer behind the desk glances up. His uniform is crisp, badge polished, and his nameplate reads Deputy Officer Stanton.

"Can I help you?" he asks, his tone casual but his gaze sharp. His eyes narrow slightly, scanning me with a mix of curiosity and wariness that I've grown used to over the years.

“I’m here to report something,” I say, my voice steady despite the knot in my stomach. “And to turn myself in."

Stanton raises an eyebrow, his interest clearly piqued. "You're reporting something and turning yourself in?”

"Yes, sir."

There's a pause as he leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. "You're Sullivan's boy, right?"

I fucking hate that question, but I don't flinch. Instead, I straighten my posture, meeting his gaze. I hate that I even have to own up to it.

"Yes, sir."

Stanton studies me for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. "I've heard things about you."

Great.

Here it comes—the judgments, the assumptions, the shadow of my father's reputation looming over me yet again. But then Stanton surprises me.

"Nick has mentioned you a couple of times," he says, leaning forward slightly. "Says you've been helping him out over the summer."

His words catch me off guard, and I clear my throat, trying to cover the brief flicker of surprise. The last thing I expected is Nick talking about me here, of all places.

“Well, he needed help, so." I shrug, keeping my tone casual.

Stanton gives a small, almost approving nod and motions toward a chair. "Sit tight. I'll be back."

"Wait," I say quickly, pulling the phone from my pocket. "The thing I wanted to report—it has to do with this."

I hand him the phone, already unlocked. Stanton's face hardens as he scrolls through the images, his brows furrowing in disgust. The ticking of the wall clock fills the silence between us.

"Is this your phone?" he asks, his voice clipped.

"What? No," I reply quickly, bile rising in my throat at the thought. "It belongs to the guy I… well, the guy I beat the shit out of at a party. That'll probably get reported tomorrow, so I figured I'd come forward first. Save them the hassle of involving my mom."

Stanton's lips twitch, as if he's trying not to smirk. "So, let me get this straight—you beat up a guy, took his phone, and then came straight here?"

"Yes, sir."

"And how did you know there'd be photos like this on his phone?"

Because he's a twisted bastard who hurt the girl I love.

Because monsters don't always look like monsters.

Because sometimes the worst predators hide behind familiar faces.

"Call it intuition," I say instead, keeping my tone measured.

Stanton's brow rises skeptically. "Intuition, huh?"

"Yes, sir," I repeat, my gaze dropping to my hands. The dried blood on my knuckles tells its own story.

He doesn't buy it. I can tell by the way his eyes linger on me, unblinking and assessing. But he doesn't press further. Instead, he exhales sharply and stands, the chair scraping against the linoleum floor.

"All right. Don't move. I'll be right back."

As he disappears down the hallway, I exhale slowly, rubbing my palms against my thighs. My knee bounces involuntarily while I look at the clock on the wall, each second dragging painfully slowly. The buzz of the fluorescent lights mixes with distant phone rings and radio chatter, a symphony of late-night law enforcement.

I am so, so fucked.

I'm still sitting in the same spot twenty minutes later, my leg bouncing impatiently, when the sound of my name snaps my head up.

"Nate."

Nick strides into the station, his presence commanding as ever. His dark eyes find mine immediately, filled with what looks like relief rather than disappointment. Stanton follows close behind, still holding Evan's phone.

"Nick?" I ask, standing, confusion and gratitude warring in my chest.

He stops in front of me, nodding once before turning to Stanton. "Thanks for calling me, Danny."

Danny? How close are these two?

Stanton looks between us, his voice calm. "Your boy here did the right thing coming in. If this Evan kid tries to press charges, he's going to have a hell of a time explaining what's on this." He holds up the phone for emphasis, disgust flickering across his features.

Nick's eyes narrow as he takes the phone from Stanton, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "Good. And Nate? Is he free to go?"

Stanton grins, something knowing in his expression. "He's good to go."

Nick claps him on the shoulder, like old friends do. "Appreciate it, Danny. Really."

Stanton nods, then lowers his voice. "By the way, did you sort out that issue with—" He stops himself, trying not to look in my direction as if he'd give something away.

Nick's jaw tightens briefly before he nods. "Yeah. It's handled. Thanks again, Danny."

The ride home is quiet, the hum of Nick's truck filling the space like white noise against my thoughts. Streetlights pass overhead in rhythmic flashes, each one marking another moment of silence between us. Finally, I break it.

"I'm trying, you know," I say, my voice low as I watch the shadows play across the dashboard. "To be better. Better than my dad ever was."

Nick doesn't respond right away, and I feel him weighing his words. When he does speak, his voice is calm, steady.

"Nate, listen. We don't get to choose our parents or the way we come into this world. But we do get to choose what we do with it. We can decide to accept who they are, let go of what they've done, and become everything they weren't."

His words settle in my chest, heavy and solid like truth. After a moment, I exhale.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly, my gaze still fixed out the window at the passing night. "For being a burd??—"

"Don't," Nick cuts me off, his voice firm but not harsh. "You're not finishing that sentence. The people who made you feel like you were? They were dead wrong."

I don't know how to respond to that—to the unwavering certainty in his voice, to the fact that someone sees me as worth something.

Instead, I pivot.

"I know about Monty," I say after a pause. "I'll pay you back. Every cent."

Nick looks over at me briefly, his expression unreadable in the dim light, before turning back to the road.

"You call me when you're in trouble—that's the deal. Always has been." His jaw tightens. "As for Monty, guys like him who prey on kids need to be put in their place." He shifts in his seat, the tension in his expression softening as a smirk tugs at his lips.

"But if you're serious about paying me back, I've got a deal for you."

I arch a brow, grateful for the lighter turn. "What kind of deal?"

"You say yes to playing on opening night."

I laugh, shaking my head. The sound feels foreign after everything tonight.

"You know playing one gig doesn't even come close to covering what you probably paid."

"Maybe not," he admits with a grin. "But it's a start."

I stare at him for a moment, my chest tightening with the question that's been gnawing at me since I found out what he did.

"Why?"

"Why what?" he asks, glancing over.

"Why do you keep helping me when I keep screwing up?"

Nick pulls into the driveway, kills the engine, and turns to face me fully. His usual teasing expression softens, something raw flickering in his eyes under the porch light.

"Because I don't see a screw-up," he says quietly. "I see a guy who got dealt a shitty hand but keeps fighting anyway. Someone who loves hard, even when it'd be easier to give up."

He pauses, his jaw tightening with old pain. "I wasn't there for my brother when he needed me most. That's a regret I'll carry forever. But I'm here now—for you. Got it?"

I nod, his words hitting harder than any punch I've ever taken. For once, I don't have anything to say.

As I step out of the truck, guilt twists in my stomach as I remember his plans for the night.

"Shit—didn't you have a date with Kat tonight?"

Nick grins, the tension easing from his shoulders. "Worked in my favor. Got myself a second date."

Before I can shut the door, he calls out, "Nate, what you did tonight—for Nora—already makes you a better man than your father ever was."

The house is dead silent when I push open the front door. My knuckles throb with every heartbeat, the blood dried and cracked across them, but I barely notice. I take the stairs two at a time, the creak of wood under my feet the only sound in the darkness. Nora's room is at the end of the hall, a soft glow spilling out from beneath her door. I stop there, my hand resting on the doorknob, hesitating. I shouldn't go in. I should leave her alone, let her sleep in peace.

But I can't. I need to see her.

To remind myself why tonight had to happen.

The door opens with a quiet creak, and the sight of her steals my breath. She's curled on the bed, her laptop casting a faint blue glow across her face. Her lashes rest against her cheeks, her breathing slow and steady. The tension in my chest loosens, just a fraction.

She's safe.

I step inside, careful not to wake her. The laptop screen blinks off as I close it, leaving the room bathed in the warm light of her bedside lamp. I grab the blanket folded at the foot of the bed, draping it over her and tucking it gently around her shoulders. Bones, her stuffed toy, is on the nightstand, his lopsided eyes staring back at me. I set him beside her, exactly where he belongs.

The mattress dips slightly as I sit on the edge of the bed. For a long moment, I just watch her. She's so soft, so serene, and it feels like I'm looking at something I'll never deserve. My gaze drops to my hands—bloodied, bruised, and calloused. Her world and mine couldn't be more different.

But God help me, I'd burn for her.

I'd set this whole world on fire if it meant keeping her safe. I'd destroy myself to save her.

Is that healthy? Probably not, but I don't care.

I reach out, my fingers brushing back a strand of hair from her face. The touch is featherlight, yet it makes my chest ache. She stirs slightly, her face turning toward my hand, and my throat tightens. She's an angel, pure and whole, and I'm the devil clawing at the edges of her light. I lean down, pressing my lips to her forehead, letting the warmth of her skin seep into me.

"He won’t hurt you ever again." I whisper, my voice barely audible. "I promise."

I pull back, my eyes tracing every line of her face. She's too good for me, and it's not just her beauty—it's everything else. The way she always adds two sugars to her coffee, even though she hates the bitterness, because tea feels like giving up.

She smells like lavender, not because she loves it, but because she'd read somewhere that it made people feel happy and calm.

She has this quiet need to brighten the world, always saying hello to anyone who smiles at her first, like she can't let kindness go unanswered.

She laughs too hard at stupid movies and cries at ones she's seen a hundred times.

And she spent hours making those beaded bracelets for strangers, just to make their day a little brighter. I never understood how someone so effortlessly extraordinary could look in the mirror and not see what everyone else did.

That's been the theme all along, hasn't it? From the moment she walked into my life, everything shifted. I knew it was too late to turn back.

She isn't just someone I love—she is it.

The endgame.

The one I've been searching for in this lifetime, and probably every one before and after.

She became a part of me in ways I'll never fully understand, but I don't need to.

Some things aren't meant to be questioned.

Some things just are.

And she's always been my answer to most things.