Chapter 7 #2
Something shifted in that moment. Not big. Not dramatic. But something real. Like maybe—for just a breath—he felt it too. The thing I hadn’t dared name that existed between us. That I wasn’t just a burden. That maybe I was something to him. Something more.
I sat up, sluggish and bleary, brushing the heel of my hand across my eyes. “I’m going to—uh… wash my face,” I muttered.
“Take your time,” he said. His voice was soft, but there was something in it that made my chest hurt.
In the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face and gripped the edge of the sink. My reflection looked like hell. Eyes red-rimmed, and puffy hair flattened on one side from where I’d been pressed into him. My hoodie—his hoodie—hung off my frame like armor I hadn’t earned.
But it smelled like him. And that was enough to keep me breathing.
When I padded back into the room, I stood awkwardly at the edge of the couch, biting the inside of my cheek. The room was dim now, the low hum of the refrigerator and the street outside the only background noise.
“You, uh… want to stay for dinner?” I asked, trying to sound casual, like it wasn’t the most terrifying sentence I’d ever said. My chest felt tight waiting for his answer—like if he said no, something in me would collapse again, and I wasn’t sure I could survive that twice in one day.
Anthony looked up from where he was sitting, still half-braced against the weight of the day. His shoulders were drawn tight, fatigue etched into every line of his face. His shirt was wrinkled from where I’d clung to it earlier—like my hands hadn’t quite wanted to let him go.
His eyes, deep brown and storm-worn, met mine. There was something broken in them. Familiar. A mirrored grief. He’d been through hell and looked like he was still there.
“You cook?” he asked, his voice low, gravel-rough and frayed at the edges.
“Define ‘cook,’” I muttered, already walking toward the kitchen like I had it together. Like my ribs weren’t aching from trying to hold all the hollow parts of me in place. “There’s not much here, but I’ll figure something out.”
He didn’t say anything for a second, then sighed like today had finally caught up to him and stood, following with slow, heavy steps. He sat at the small table like he had all the time in the world. Like he wasn’t just my dad’s best friend, like maybe he wanted to be here.
I opened cabinets and stared into the abyss of canned food and long-expired groceries. “So… your last meal might be overcooked penne and questionable sauce.”
“I’ve had worse.” There was something almost tender in his voice. “Well. Maybe not worse. But I was definitely drunker.”
I smiled despite myself, and rummaged for a pan like I wasn’t actively panicking.
My hands shook as I filled a pot with water and dumped in the rock-hard pasta.
Then poured a few cans of mixed beans and passata sauce into another pan.
It hissed violently when it hit the hot metal—probably because I’d left the burner too high—and the smell was… not great.
Frozen vegetables were nuked into oblivion in the microwave, turning into something that might once have resembled food but now looked like it had gone through three world wars.
“Smells…” he paused, sniffed. “Ambitious.”
I glared over my shoulder. “It’s gourmet cuisine if you close your eyes and lower your expectations.”
He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Consider them thoroughly lowered.”
By the time I dished up the disaster, my heart was in my throat. I set the bowls down with all the ceremony of a last rite, then slid into the seat across from him and tried not to look like I was watching his every move. My knee bounced under the table and I chewed on my thumb.
He picked up the fork with grim determination and took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. His jaw clenched. He coughed.
“You okay?” I asked, mortified.
“Yeah,” he wheezed. “Just… a, uh, seasoning surprise.”
I barked out a startled laugh, and for a second, the weight in my chest cracked enough to let something else through. “You don’t have to eat it. I think I accidentally seasoned it with a bit of everything I could find.”
Anthony grinned through it, voice hoarse. “No, no. I’m good. It’s got… texture.” My confusion must have shown on my face because his lips twitched. “And…ah, character.”
“That’s what you say when food tastes like shit.”
We both snorted at the same time. The smile we shared was crooked and tired. But real. And that scared the hell out of me. I leaned back in my chair, relaxing for the first time all day, and he did too, his posture softening like he hadn’t realized how tightly wound he’d been.
“Maybe some cheese would be a good idea?”
“Umm…” I pushed out of my seat and searched the fridge. “Here.” I handed him the hard dried lump of cheddar.
“Got a grater? I don’t fancy breaking my teeth,” he taunted.
“Sure?”
He ate more than he had to—out of politeness or penance, I wasn’t sure—and I just pushed food around my plate, pretending to eat. The silence between us grew soft, not sharp. Easier to sit in than to fill.
“So this is domestic life with you?” he asked eventually, voice lighter than before.
“Only on existential-crisis days,” I said. “On normal days, I burn toast and pretend it's intentional.”
Anthony chuckled, low and rough. Then his tone shifted. Quieter. “Some of the best nights I’ve ever had started with terrible food and ended with…” he trailed off.
I tilted my head. “Ended with what?”
His eyes lifted to mine, and I felt the pause like a held breath. “Something I didn’t know I needed.”
My heart stuttered. I looked down, afraid of what might happen if I didn’t. The tension was a live wire between us—never touched, never crossed, but there. For the first time, I felt the shift happening, quiet but undeniable.
“You don’t have to keep doing this,” I whispered. “Showing up. Taking care of me.”
His expression darkened not with anger, but something else. He leaned forward, eyes dark and intent. “I’m not doing this because I have to, Elliot.”
My throat tightened. “Then why?”
“Because someone should have done it for you since the day you lost your mom.” He exhaled, long and raw. “Because you deserve more than being left behind.”
My chest twisted. The lump in my throat scraped against everything I’d buried.
I looked away first. “If this is a mistake,” I said, barely more than a breath, “tell me now.” I didn’t tell him the rest. I didn’t tell him how scared I was of how much I needed him.
How the thought of him leaving hurt more than anything else in the world.
I swallowed it down and let the silence pretend I was braver than I was.
Anthony didn’t react, didn’t even blink at my words. He leaned back in the chair, eyes scanning me like I was a puzzle he didn’t want to solve too fast. “It would be easier if it was.”
“But it’s not?”
“No.” His voice was rough. “It’s not.”
We sat in the aftershock of that truth. My mom’s ghost was still in the walls. My dad’s absence still rang like silence through the empty halls. But Anthony was here. And maybe that didn’t fix anything but it made the breaking bearable.
When he stood and cleared the table, rinsing away the food I’d destroyed, I watched in stunned silence. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he said. “Let me do this.”
It was the want that got me. Not the duty. Not the guilt. Just… him. Wanting to help carry something that was too damn heavy.
Once he’d scrubbed the counters down and dried his hands. He sat next to me on the couch, so close our shoulders touched.
He didn’t move away and neither did I. We just settled into the silence between us. He scrolled through Netflix like the world wasn’t ending and tomorrow was guaranteed.
I pulled my knees up underneath myself and curled into the space between us, tucked my face into the neck of his hoodie, and breathed him in.
The ache in my chest didn’t leave. It just didn’t cut as deep. Grief still lived there. Loss still clawed under my skin. But as his arm came around me, steady and warm, for the first time in what felt like forever, I didn’t feel completely alone.
Not whole. Not healed. But held. And for now…
that was enough. It was enough that I could take a breath and it didn’t feel like I was drowning.
I had questions—so many they roared in my skull like thunder, threatening to tear open old wounds and spill secrets even I didn’t understand.
But for the first time in days, I felt still.
Safe. Like if I closed my eyes, the world would still be the same when they opened.
So I did. Only for a second… Or maybe longer. Time slipped. Because the next thing I knew, I was being lifted.
My limbs hung heavy, my head lolled against a solid chest that smelled like fabric softener, cedar and sea salt—something warm and distinctly Anthony.
I was still wrapped in his hoodie, my fingers fisted in the fabric like I was clinging to a life raft.
I should’ve been embarrassed, maybe even startled, but I wasn’t.
My body trusted him before my mind had a chance to argue. That was the dangerous part.
I heard the soft creak of stairs beneath his feet. The quiet grunt as he shifted me higher against his chest like I was something fragile. My cheek brushed the side of his neck, and I let out a breath that trembled too hard.
He felt it. His grip on my thigh tightened, firm and grounding. Like he was saying: I know. I’m here.
The door to my room gave a low groan as he pushed it open, and he carried me across the threshold like some messed-up fairytale, past the remnants of a life that didn’t feel like mine anymore.
My walls were still plastered with the echoes of a childhood I couldn’t get back.
Posters. Photos. Trophies for things I didn’t care about.
My bed looked smaller than I remembered.
Anthony lowered me down with an ease that said he’d done this before—held broken things, maybe even put some back together.
The mattress dipped beneath my weight, the sheets cold against my overheated skin.
I felt his hand linger, fingers brushing the line of my jaw as he reached for the blanket and pulled it up to my chest with the kind of tenderness that didn’t belong in a world like this.
My eyes fluttered open. Only just.
His silhouette hovered above me in the dark, shadowed by moonlight filtering through the blinds. I couldn’t see him clearly, but I didn’t need to. I could feel the moment he hesitated—about to turn away.
“No—” My voice cracked, small and brittle. “With me.” My fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt before I could stop myself, just enough to feel him there. Just enough to see if he would pull away.
He froze. Time caught between one heartbeat and the next. “Elliot…” he said, so quietly it hurt.
“Please.” It came out wrong. Too raw. Too real. “Just hold me together.” And maybe that was the most honest thing I’d ever said.
He didn’t answer, not with words. Something broke in the silence between us.
Not loud. Just a breath, soft and sad. Then movement—the rustle of clothes, the soft creak of the mattress again as he slid in beside me.
One strong arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me back against his chest, anchoring me in place.
His warmth bled into me like sunlight through stained glass, fractured and imperfect but still enough to push back the dark.
I swallowed hard, my breath catching as I let myself be held.
My ribs felt too fragile for this. Too breakable.
But I didn’t care. I didn’t realize I was shaking until his hand splayed flat over my sternum, grounding me.
Not gently. Firm. Like he was trying to reach inside and calm the panic from the source.
“You’re safe,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”
His voice scratched against the inside of my ribs. I wanted to cry. But I didn’t. I just breathed. I knew this couldn’t last. Nothing ever did. And that was the cruelest part—that I was already bracing for the moment it would be taken away.
My eyelids dropped again, lashes brushing my cheeks. The silence settled thick between us, broken only by our breathing. Then I felt it—his lips ghosting against my hair.
“I’ll protect you,” he murmured.
I didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Because in that moment, I slept in his arms feeling safe for the first time in years—and terrified of how much I needed him to be there when I woke.