Chapter 25
Chapter twenty-five
Nicky
Liam has been down in the gym for almost three hours, which is at least an hour longer than his usual workout. I’ve been trying not to hover, trying to give him space to process whatever he’s working through, but the nagging worry in my chest won’t settle.
I head down to the basement gym, punching in the access code and pushing through the door into the climate-controlled space. The sound of weights clanking against metal reaches me before I see him. Repetitive, aggressive, the rhythm all wrong.
Liam is on the bench press, pushing far more weight than he should be attempting, his face red with exertion and his arms shaking with the strain. There’s no spotter, no safety bars, and the way he’s gritting his teeth suggests he’s pushing himself past any reasonable limit.
“Liam,” I call out, but he doesn’t seem to hear me over whatever he’s listening to through his headphones.
I move closer, watching as he struggles to complete another rep, his form deteriorating as his muscles scream for mercy. This isn’t training, this is punishment. He’s hurting himself on purpose, using physical pain to drown out whatever’s happening in his head.
When his arms start to buckle, I step in quickly, grabbing the bar and helping him guide it back to the rack. The weight settles with a clang, and Liam’s eyes snap open, startled by my presence.
He pulls out his earbuds, breathing hard. “What…”
“You’re pushing too hard,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice gentle rather than accusatory. “That’s too much weight, and you’ve been down here too long.”
“I’m fine,” he says automatically, but his hands are shaking and there’s a wild look in his eyes that suggests he’s anything but fine.
“You’re not fine. Come on, we’re going back upstairs.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to argue, to insist he needs to finish his workout or claim he’s got more in him. But then something in his expression crumbles, and he just nods, exhausted and defeated.
We ride the elevator in silence, and I can feel the tension radiating off him in waves.
Despite his clear exhaustion, his leg bounces restlessly, his fingers tap against his thigh, and he can’t seem to stand still even in the confined space.
Every line of his body screams anxiety, stress, the kind of restless energy that has nowhere healthy to go.
“Quick shower?” I suggest when we get back to the apartment.
He nods again, still not speaking, and disappears into the bathroom. I hear the water turn on and try not to worry about how long he stays in there or what he might be thinking while the hot water runs over him.
When he emerges fifteen minutes later, his hair is damp and he’s wearing soft clothes.
My old fake university hoodie again and a pair of joggers that are still slightly too big for him.
But instead of retreating to his room, he hovers in the doorway of the living room, watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“You okay?” I ask from my spot on the sofa.
“Can I just... be in here with you?”
The question is so tentative, so careful, like he’s afraid I might say no or ask him to explain himself.
“Of course. Always.” I pat the cushion beside me. “Come here.”
He crosses the room quickly, almost desperately, and settles onto the sofa close enough that our legs are touching. But he’s still tense, still radiating that jumpy, on-edge energy that suggests his mind is racing with thoughts he can’t quite control.
I don’t try to force conversation. Sometimes the worst thing you can do when someone is spiraling is demand they explain themselves. Instead, I just turn on the TV and find something mindless to watch. A nature documentary about ocean life, all soothing narration and beautiful underwater footage.
For the first twenty minutes, Liam sits rigid beside me, his hands clenched in his lap, his breathing slightly too fast. He flinches at small sounds, the building settling, a car horn from the street below, the refrigerator humming in the kitchen.
Each tiny noise sets his shoulders higher, his jaw tighter.
“Bad day?” I ask eventually, keeping my voice low and calm.
He nods without looking at me.
“Want to talk about it?”
He shakes his head.
“That’s okay.”
I reach over slowly, giving him plenty of time to pull away if he needs to, and rest my hand on his knee. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he seems to lean slightly into the touch, like he’s been waiting for permission to accept comfort.
“Sometimes,” I say quietly, “bad days just happen. There’s no reason, no trigger, no specific thing that caused it. Your brain just decides today is going to be hard, and you have to ride it out.”
“I hate it,” he whispers. “I hate that I can’t control it. That I can wake up fine and by afternoon I’m falling apart for no reason.”
“I know. But it’s not your fault. Mental health doesn’t work on a schedule or follow logical patterns. Sometimes you just have bad days, and that’s okay.”
“It doesn’t feel okay.”
“I know that too.”
Liam sighs heavily. “When did you get so clever?”
I force a grin onto my face. “Excuse me? Who used to do all your homework for you?”
The fact that I’ve been frantically reading everything I can find on PTSD and trauma, is a secret I’m taking to the grave. As is the fact that I’ve been pestering his therapist for tips on how to handle things.
Liam smiles at my lame attempt at humor, but his heart is clearly not in it. The smile never reaches his eyes. Instead, he looks away and stares at the TV.
The documentary drones on about the mating habits of seahorses, but neither of us is really watching. I can feel Liam’s attention focused entirely inward, on the storm of anxiety and fear and whatever else is churning through his mind.
“Come here,” I say, shifting to make room and opening my arms in invitation.
For a moment, he just stares at me, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to accept what I’m offering. Then he moves, curling into my side with his head on my chest, and I wrap my arms around him firmly, securely, the kind of hold that says I’ve got you without needing words.
He lets out a shaky breath, and I feel some of the tension start to drain from his body. Not all of it. The anxiety is still there, still making his muscles tight and his breathing uneven. But enough that he’s no longer vibrating with barely contained panic.
“You’re safe,” I murmur into his hair. “Right here, right now, you’re safe. Nothing bad is going to happen to you.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“Actually, I can. You’ve got a scary mafia boyfriend now, remember? Anyone who wants to hurt you has to go through me first, and I’m very good at my job.”
The comment is calculated to be just absurd enough to break through his spiral, while reminding him of the truth, and it works. Liam huffs out something that’s almost a laugh, and I feel his body relax another fraction.
“Scary mafia boyfriend,” he repeats, and there’s the tiniest hint of amusement in his voice.
It is an absurd phrase, despite the fact he saw me deal with Wayne Thompson.
“Very scary. Terrifying, even. I have a reputation to maintain.”
“You made me hot chocolate with marshmallows this morning.”
“Scary people can still appreciate the finer things in life. Like marshmallows.”
This time he definitely laughs, a real one, soft and brief but genuine. His arms wrap around my waist, holding on like I’m an anchor in a storm he can’t see but can definitely feel.
“You’ll never be scary to me, Nicky. I have an image of you forever burned into my eyes. You pissing in your mum’s best vase because you were too scared to go upstairs to the bathroom after we watched that horror film.”
“Firstly,” I say with all the pretend seriousness I can muster. “You should have stopped being an asshole and gone upstairs with me. Secondly, this is why I have to keep you safe now. You know all my secrets.”
He laughs again and then snuggles closer. My arms tighten around him, and I breathe him in.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
“For what?” I ask as my heart thumps.
I hate that he always thanks me. For even the smallest amount of basic human decency. As if kindness is extraordinary. More than anything else has, it paints a vivid picture of how awful prison was.
“Thank you for not making me explain. For just... being here. For letting me fall apart without asking me to justify why.”
“You never have to justify your feelings to me. Good days, bad days, days when nothing makes sense, I’m here for all of them.”
We stay like that for a long time, wrapped around each other on the sofa while the TV plays forgotten in the background.
I can feel the moment when Liam finally lets go of the last of his resistance, when he stops fighting the anxiety and just accepts that today is hard and that’s all there is to it.
His breathing evens out. His muscles unclench.
His fingers stop their restless tapping against my ribs.
He doesn’t fall asleep. I can tell he’s still awake by the way his hand occasionally shifts to find a new grip on my shirt.
But he’s calmer now. Present instead of lost in whatever dark place his mind tried to drag him to.
“I’m scared,” he admits after a while, his voice muffled against my chest.
“Of what?”
“That I’ll always be like this. That I’ll have these bad days forever, that I’ll never be able to just... be normal without constantly waiting for the next breakdown.”
It’s a fear I understand, even if I’ve never experienced it quite the way he has. The worry that healing has a limit, that there’s only so much better you can get before you plateau at a level that’s still broken.
“Maybe you will have bad days forever,” I say honestly. “Maybe this is something you’ll always have to manage, something that will always be part of who you are. But you know what?”
“What?”
“That doesn’t make you less worthy of love or happiness or a full life. It just means you have to work a little harder some days than other people do. And you’re strong enough for that. I’ve seen your strength, Liam. I’ve watched you survive things that would have destroyed most people.”
“I don’t feel strong.”
“You don’t have to feel it for it to be true.”
He’s quiet for a moment, processing this. “And you’ll really stay? Even if I’m like this sometimes? Even if I have days when I can’t explain what’s wrong or how to fix it?”
“Especially then. That’s when you need me most.”
I feel his grip tighten, his face pressing harder against my chest like he’s trying to burrow inside me where it’s safe. The trust in that gesture, the willingness to be vulnerable, to accept comfort, to believe that I mean what I say, is more precious than anything I’ve ever been given.
“The bad days don’t last forever,” I tell him softly. “They feel like they will, but they don’t. Tomorrow might be better. Or the day after. And even if it’s not, even if you have a string of bad days, we’ll get through them together.”
“Promise?”
“I promise. You’re not alone in this anymore, Liam. You’re never going to be alone again.”
His body finally goes completely lax against mine, all the fight and fear draining out of him until he’s just a warm weight in my arms. It’s not a magical cure.
Tomorrow he might wake up still struggling, might have another bad day or another moment of panic.
But for now, in this moment, he’s safe and calm and loved.
And sometimes that’s all healing can be. Not a steady march toward being fixed, but a series of moments where the bad days become bearable because you don’t have to face them alone.
We stay on the sofa long after the documentary ends, wrapped around each other while the winter evening darkens outside and the city lights begin to twinkle through the windows.
It’s tender and bittersweet, this love we’re building.
Complicated by trauma and fear and the weight of everything we’ve both been through.
But it’s real. It’s ours. And it’s strong enough to hold us both, even on the days when holding ourselves feels impossible.
“Love you,” Liam mumbles, half-asleep now despite his earlier restlessness.
“Love you too,” I whisper back. “Always.”
And in the quiet of our living room, holding the person I love while he finally finds peace after a day of fighting his own mind, I think about how far we’ve come. How much further we still have to go. How the journey is messy and non-linear and sometimes feels impossible.
But we’re making it. Step by step, day by day. Bad moments and good moments, and everything in between.
We’re making it together.
And that’s more than enough. It is the only thing that matters. The only thing I need or want.