Chapter 36 Almost Normal #2
And then—because life hates me—he insisted I drive one of the damn things around the lot. So I did. Hands white-knuckled on the wheel. Breath shallow.
Adrian talked the whole time—distracting me with commentary about torque and engine noise and the fact that I’d look ‘ridiculously hot’ in sunglasses behind the wheel of something this absurd.
I tried to stay with him. I really did. But the tension in my spine never let up. By the time we left with brochures and way too many crash test comparison charts, I was wrung out.
Adrian drove home, animatedly narrating features, saying things like: “I know you want a coupe, but a coupe won’t protect your organs.” or “Two doors? During an emergency extraction? Ridiculous.”
I should’ve been annoyed. Should’ve snapped at him or teased him or told him he was out of his mind. But instead, I sat there, hands in my lap, fingernails digging crescents into my palms as I tried to ignore the buzzing in my ears.
Adrian glanced over at me to say something, taking his eyes off the road for one half-second.
A horn blared.
He braked hard.
I lurched forward, and the world narrowed to a tunnel around me. My heart slammed against my chest, loud and frantic. I couldn’t pull in air fast enough. My whole body seized. I pressed back against the seat, trying to disappear into it. My head filled with every catastrophic scenario at once.
Adrian cursed under his breath. “Shit—sorry, I—are you okay?”
I nodded stiffly, but I wasn’t okay.
“Eli—hey—breathe,” Adrian said quickly, voice even but his hand trembling where it reached for me. “It’s alright. You’re fine. No one hit us.”
But the airbag was all I could see. The impact. The sound. Blinding white lights blocking out the world. Screeching tires and metal crunching. His voice screaming my name.
I didn’t speak the rest of the ride home. Couldn’t. My pulse didn’t settle. My throat felt bruised from holding everything in.
By the time we pulled into the driveway, something inside me snapped loose. He barely had the car in park before I broke apart, tears spilling in a hot and humiliating torrent before I could stop them. My chest hitched, breath uneven, my hands fisted in my jeans.
“Hey—hey—Eli.”
He reached for me instantly, cupping the back of my head, pulling me into his chest.
I welcomed his embrace, shaking, swallowing air that didn't seem to help.
“I’m sorry,” I gasped. “I don’t know why—I don’t—I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t apologize,” he murmured, arms wrapping around me tighter. “Don’t you dare apologize for this.”
His shirt dampened with my tears. His heartbeat thundered under my cheek.
I clung to him, hating how small I felt but unable to let go.
Sobs hit me so hard they felt physical, tearing something loose deep inside.
My hands came up to my face on instinct, trying to hide it, but the shaking betrayed me.
“Eli?” Adrian’s voice went soft-sharp, the tone he used in triage when something was wrong, but he needed the patient to stay with him.
I couldn’t look at him. Adrian unbuckled my seatbelt for me. He shifted closer and committed to the hug for the long-term, his breath warm against my temple.
I broke harder. Not because of the honk. Not because of the jolt. Not even because of the cars.
But because some deep, terrified part of me realized I didn’t want to be brave anymore. Not today. Not in front of him. And Adrian just held me while I fell apart.
I didn’t know how long I cried there in the car.
Long enough for my breath to stutter.
Long enough for my heartbeat to settle.
Long enough for the unwelcome hand of shame to creep up my spine.
“I’m sorry,” I rasped when the tears finally thinned. It sounded pathetic, scraped raw. “I don’t know why I—I didn’t mean to fall apart like that.”
Adrian didn’t even hesitate. “Don’t apologize.” His voice was soft but fierce.
He pulled me close, and I leaned into him, desperate for his touch.
“Let’s get you inside.”
When I finally calmed down enough to breathe, he gently guided me out of the car and into the house on wobbly legs that felt made of someone else’s bones.
Inside, he steered me to the couch and sat beside me, not too close at first. I hated that I was grateful for the space. My hands still shook in my lap. I tried to flatten them. Tried to pull myself back together. But Adrian watched me with devastating, unguarded tenderness.
“Talk to me,” he urged softly.
“I don’t… I don’t know what happened.” My voice cracked again, humiliatingly thin. “The honk, I guess. The brake. It was stupid.”
“It wasn’t stupid,” he said immediately, leaning in. He scooted closer, hip to hip. “You had a trauma response. Your body remembered something terrible. That doesn’t make you weak.”
I exhaled shakily. “It’s been over two months. I should be past this.”
He reached out slowly, giving me every chance to recoil—and placed his hand over mine. “You don’t get past something like that,” he said. “You move through it. And that doesn’t happen on a schedule, no matter how many charts I print out about safety ratings.”
A startled laugh escaped me, wet and broken. He smiled slightly, relieved, and traced my knuckles. I stared at his hand holding mine. Broad. Steady. Familiar.
My throat tightened, but not with tears this time.
“Adrian…” I whispered, unsure where the word was going until it left me.
He shifted closer, practically pulling me into his lap.
“You scared me,” I admitted, the words falling out before I could rein them in. “Not today— I mean… when you left. When you kept leaving. When work became the only place you lived. I felt like—like I could disappear right in front of you and you wouldn’t notice.”
He inhaled sharply, his eyes closing for a moment as the confession physically landed in him.
I thought he’d pull away. I thought I’d said too much. I always said too much.
But Adrian took my face in both hands—so gently I nearly shattered again—and pressed a kiss to my trach scar.
“I notice you,” he whispered. “I’ve always noticed you. Even when I was too messed up and distracted to show it.”
“I think I’m just broken.”
“You are not broken.”
“I feel like it.”
He placed another kiss on my lips, quick and sweet.
“Then I’ll hold the pieces together until you don’t.”
“Why are you being so gentle with me?”
“Because you survived something that should’ve destroyed you,” he whispered fiercely. “Because you deserve gentleness. Because I love you. And,” he added quietly, “because you’re the only person I want falling apart in my arms.”
His warm breath mingled with mine. The heat between us shifted—grief to desire to something deeper, something that hummed under the skin. His thumbs stroked away my tears. My hands found his shoulders. We leaned in at the same time, drawn like magnets or tides or something older.
The kiss wasn’t hungry, not the way it had been the night before. It was slow. Bare. A confession disguised as mouths meeting. He tasted faintly of iced coffee and worry. I tasted of salt and relief.
When we pulled back, he rested his lips on my jaw and murmured, “I’m not going anywhere.”
My fingers curled in the fabric of his damp shirt, pulling him closer until our chests brushed, heat blooming between us.
“I don’t want you to,” I breathed. “Don’t ever want to lose you. I’m not me without you.”
His hands slid down to my hips and tugged me fully into his lap. In that moment, the world shrank to the space between us—warm, fragile, exhilarating. A new kind of intimacy.
Not sex or comfort. Not an apology. But something like trust, rebuilt one breath at a time. Because even broken, even terrified, even messy like this—
I trusted him to hold me together.
Even when I couldn’t hold myself.