Chapter 18
The Weight of Protection
Maliyah
A week had passed since that night. For the last seven nights Reed had been sleeping on my couch, his presence a steady comfort in the darkness.
Each morning he'd leave for work after helping me get the kids ready for school, then come back at night with takeout and that determined look that said he wasn't going anywhere.
I hadn't asked him to stay. After that first night, he'd simply shown up the next night with an overnight bag and his phone charger, settling onto my couch like he belonged there.
Lucas had started calling the couch "Reed's bed," and Zoe had taken to leaving her stuffed animals arranged on his pile of linens during the day—her way of making sure he'd come back.
We'd fallen into a routine. Dinner together, homework help for Lucas, bedtime stories for Zoe.
Then Reed would make sure we were locked up tight while I made tea, and we'd sit together in the quiet, talking about everything and nothing until my eyelids grew heavy.
Every night, he'd tell me to go to bed. Every night, I'd see the glow from his phone in the living room as I drifted off to sleep.
It felt dangerous, this growing dependence. This need for him to be there. But I was too tired to fight it.
On Monday morning, I’d met with a victim’s advocate, Maria Bonano, at the courthouse. Reed had offered to come, but I'd told him I wanted to do it myself. He'd already done so much, and I felt like I still had something to prove to myself.
Maria's office had been small, tucked inside the courthouse with no windows and a single fake plant—unsurprising given the complete lack of sunlight.
She was younger than I'd expected—around my age, maybe mid-to-late-thirties—with kind eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor that immediately put me at ease.
"Okay, Ms. Davenport. Let's walk through this together.
" She'd spread the documents I'd brought across her desk—hospital records, photos from back when we’d been together—so violent-looking that they still made my stomach turn, the police report with its clinical description of that final time—the worst of them all.
"This is good documentation. Very thorough. "
I'd twisted my hands in my lap. "Is it enough?"
"It's more than enough for the petition.
The question is whether the judge will grant a temporary order.
" Maria had made notes on a legal pad. "The prior assault is significant.
The fact you needed surgery shows how severe it was.
Add to it that you left the state for as long as fifteen years shows your fear was substantial. "
"What about the recent contacts?"
"Absolutely. Multiple encounters so soon after you came back—the farmer's market, the restaurant, and the incident at your apartment building—that establishes a pattern." She'd looked up at me. "Has there been any contact since that Thursday night?"
"No. Nothing."
"Good. That may actually help. It shows he's capable of staying away, which would mean if he makes contact after being served, it could establish a deliberate violation.
" She'd pulled out a fresh form. "Let's start filling this out.
I'll need specific dates, times, and details for every interaction. "
For the next hour, I'd recounted everything. The way Bryce had looked at my kids at the market. Seeing him around. The casual menace he exhibited at the restaurant. The sound of that knock echoing through my apartment, the violation of knowing someone had forced their way into my building.
"And you're certain it was him?" Maria had asked about the knock.
"I can't prove it. But yes. I'm certain."
She'd nodded, writing. "Your certainty matters. It also helps that you're trained to recognize threatening behavior given your career."
When we'd finished, Maria had organized the papers into a neat stack. "I'll file this today. The hearing will be scheduled within ten days, probably next week. In the meantime, keep documenting everything. If he contacts you, if you see him, if anything feels off—write it down."
"What are my chances?" I'd needed to hear it again.
Maria had met my eyes. "Honestly? I'd be surprised if the judge doesn't grant the temporary order. Your case is strong. The prior violence, the geographic separation, the recent pattern—it all points to someone who poses a credible threat."
I'd felt something loosen in my chest. Not relief, exactly. But hope.
That afternoon, Reed texted me.
Reed: How'd it go?
Me: Good. Advocate is going to file everything. Should hear back soon about the temporary order.
Reed: Great. Listen, I have an idea. Can you get someone to watch the kids tonight?
Me: Probably. Why?
Reed: I want to teach you some self-defense stuff. Basic moves that might help—just in case. I'd feel better if you knew some things.
Me: I've done some stuff with the Florida shelter, but it's been a while. I'll call Felicity.
At seven, I met Reed at a small gym near the precinct. It was mostly empty—just a few people on treadmills and one guy doing pull-ups in the corner. Reed had reserved one of the private training rooms in the back.
"You didn't have to do this," I said as he held the door open for me.
"I know. But as hard as it is to consider, a restraining order is just paper. If Bryce decides to violate it, you need to be able to protect yourself until help arrives."
The room was lined with mats, one wall covered in mirrors. Reed had changed into athletic pants and a t-shirt. I felt suddenly self-conscious in my leggings and tank top—arm flab and all, but I put away my self-deprecating thoughts and committed to focusing.
"Okay," he said, moving to the center of the room. "First thing you need to know—the goal isn't to win a fight. The goal is to create an opening and get away. That's it."
"Got it."
"I want you to remember the acronym A.V.A.D.E.—Avoid, Validate: meaning validate his feelings and use empathy to de-escalate or distract him. Avert, so try to redirect or defuse before it gets physical. Defend—if it's unavoidable then defend yourself, and lastly, Escape."
I repeated the acronym back to him a few times, committing it to memory.
"Okay, let's go through some foundations. Most attackers rely on surprise and intimidation. They expect you to freeze or to be easily overpowered." He demonstrated a basic stance. "Your best weapons are the ones he won't expect—elbows, knees, the heel of your palm, your voice."
"My voice?"
"Yelling does two things. It can startle an attacker, and it draws attention. Never fight in silence if you can help it." He positioned himself in front of me. "Now, if someone grabs you from the front, like this—" His hands closed around my upper arms, firm but not painful. "What do you do?"
My breath caught. The room tilted sideways, Reed's face blurring into someone else's. My skin burned where his fingers pressed, and I could taste the copper tang of blood in my mouth, hear Bryce’s low growl in my memory—"Don't you know how stupid you are?
Are you too stupid to even know?"—feel the wall against my back, nowhere left to go.
"Maliyah." Reed's voice was gentle. He immediately released me, stepping back. "You okay?"
I nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah. Sorry. Just... caught me off guard."
"Do you need a minute?"
"No." I shook my head firmly. "No, I want to learn this. I need to learn this."
Reed studied my face for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. But if at any point you need to stop, you tell me. Deal?"
"Deal."
He moved closer again, more slowly this time. "I'm going to grab your arms again. Remember, you're safe. This is practice. And I'll let go the second you ask me to, but I really want you to try and fight back."
This time, when his hands closed around my arms, I focused on him. On the concern in his eyes, the tension in his jaw. This wasn't Bryce. This was Reed. This was safe.
"Good," he said quietly. "Now, defend yourself. Bring your arms up fast and hard, breaking my grip outward." He demonstrated in slow motion. "Then step back and assess. Can you run? Do you need to strike? Always look for the exit."
We practiced the movement over and over. His grip got progressively stronger, more realistic. Each time, I broke free a little faster.
"Excellent. Now let's try from behind." He moved around me. "This is scarier because you can't see the attacker, but you have more options. If someone grabs you like this—" His arms wrapped around me from behind, pinning my arms to my sides.
My heart rate spiked. The mirror showed us—him behind me, so much bigger, so much stronger—
"Breathe," Reed said against my ear. "Feel where my weight is. Where are the weak points?"
I forced myself to think instead of panic. "I know this one. Miss Congeniality."
"Huh?" he asked.
"Yeah! Sandra Bullock taught all of us S.I.N.G.! Solar plexus, instep, nose, groin!"
Reed's eyes widened in recognition. "Right.
" His hands settled on my shoulders, positioning me.
"Like this." He guided my elbow backward in slow motion until it hovered an inch from his solar plexus.
His breath warmed my ear as he whispered, "Full force, this would knock the wind out of him.
" His foot nudged mine wider. "Now your heel—" I felt the gentle pressure as he tapped my instep against his.
His fingers tilted my chin up slightly, our reflection catching in the mirror—his tall frame behind me, my eyes wider than I'd realized.
"Head back here," he murmured, "or fist up—use the heel of your palm, not a closed fist. Then—" His hand slid down to my knee, raising it slightly.
"And run. Don't look back. Take the chance to escape as soon as you get it. "
"Escape."
"Escape." He released me. "Want to try it for real? I'll hold on, you break free. I promise I'll let you go once you execute the moves."
"Okay."