11 Cassius #3
She nods, a jerky little movement.
“I’m here,” I say again, quieter. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
Another tear slides off her jaw and I wipe it away before it can fall.
“You saved her,” I repeat. “You save people and you don’t even realize it. Me included.”
She makes a tiny, confused sound at that, but I barrel on because if I stop now I’ll lose my nerve.
“You know how many times you’ve kept me from doing something stupid?
” I ask. “How many times just you existing kept me from putting my fist through a wall or a face? You’re my reality check, Zae.
You’re the reason I even bother with group.
The reason I’m trying. Half the time when I do my breathing exercises, I’m picturing you telling me to quit my shit. ”
Her mouth does this wobble thing that kills me.
“So no. You’re not the reason anyone wants to die. You’re the reason I haven’t done something that’d get me locked up by now. You’re the reason I have a shot at being better.”
She stares at me like I’ve grown a second head.
“Why are you like this?” she whispers. “Why are you… so fucking nice to me?”
I huff out a breath. “Nice is a strong word.”
“Shut up,” she says weakly.
I hesitate, then run my thumb under her eye again, chasing the last of the tears.
I want to say because I love you, but I don’t. The words just sit right there on the back of my tongue, burning. I swallow them, because tossing them out in the middle of a night terror recovery feels all kinds of wrong, no matter how terribly I want to say it.
Instead, I say, “Because you deserve it.”
She exhales slowly, like she’s been holding her breath this whole time.
“Okay,” she murmurs. “Okay.”
We fall quiet after that.
It’s not the heavy, suffocating silence from the car the night of the party. This one feels… full, yeah, but not ugly. Like everything that needed saying is hanging in the air between us and we’re both just letting it settle.
After a minute, she shifts closer again, tucking herself under my chin. One hand curls against my chest, just above where my heart is trying to slam its way out.
“I’m tired,” she admits, voice small.
“Sleep. I’ll be right here.”
She tilts her head up to look at me. “You promise?”
My throat tightens. “Yeah. I promise.”
Her eyes search my face for a second longer, like she’s looking for lies in the answer.
Whatever she finds seems to satisfy her because she relaxes, settling against me again.
I adjust us so we’re both more comfortable, with her leg thrown over mine and my arm wrapped fully around her, resting my hand at her hip.
She hums quietly at that, some little content noise that does dangerous things to my chest.
Her breathing starts to even out again, slower this time.
Less frantic. Every few minutes, her fingers twitch and I squeeze her just a bit, reminding her I’m still here.
I stay awake, listening for another nightmare that she doesn’t have.
I lie there in the dark, staring at the vague outline of the ceiling, listening to her breathe and replaying every word she said.
Every image. Every sliver of pain in her voice.
The longer I think about it, the angrier I get—not at her, never at her—but at the world that let a fifteen-year-old kid carry that alone. At the mom who used her as a punching bag for her own misery. At myself, for not pushing when she was gone.
I can’t change any of that. I know that.
Yet it doesn’t stop the rage from simmering low in my gut. But I can be here now. I can hold her through bad dreams. I can tell her, every damn day if I have to, that she’s not too much. That she isn’t broken. That she’s the strongest person I know.
So I make myself some quiet promises there in the dark, with her heartbeat tapping against my ribs.
Tomorrow, I’m telling her at least three good things about herself.
I don’t care how cheesy she says it is. I’m doing it.
I’m going to make her laugh at least once a day.
Real laughs. The kind that make her cheeks hurt.
I’m going to keep showing up to everything.
Game nights. Study sessions. Stupid parties.
Whatever it takes to remind her she’s not alone.
And one day—when she’s ready, when I’ve finished cleaning up the mess with Stacey, when I’ve earned it—I’m going to tell her the rest. That she doesn’t just carry my heart in some metaphorical Howl’s Moving Castle way.
That somewhere between our first Friday pizza night and tonight, she became the only person I can imagine building a life with.
But not tonight. Tonight, I just tighten my hold around her and press a light kiss into her hair, so soft I’m not even sure it lands.
“Sleep, sunshine,” I murmur into the dark. “I’ve got you.”
Her fingers curl in my shirt one last time, like her subconscious heard me. I stay awake until the sky outside the window starts to pale, counting every breath she takes.
I’ve never been more exhausted.
I’ve also never been more sure of anything in my life.