Chapter 10 #2
I didn’t head back straightaway. That felt important. Like if I went back while I was still shaking, still raw, still trying to justify myself—I’d only make it worse.
So I stayed in the truck and cleaned myself up. Luckily in my line of work, I always kept a change of clothes in a duffel in the truck bed. Sobered up and got my head on straight.
Watched the sky lighten by degrees. Watched the world restart itself without asking permission.
The bar emptied behind me as people returned to their lives. The lot went quiet. Even the roar of the ocean seemed to soften.
Sleep eluded me. I sat there with the engine off and my hands on the steering wheel and the weight of everything I’d almost destroyed pressing into my ribs.
My hand wouldn’t stop shaking. Not from the alcohol.
From the thought of what my silence might sound like inside him.
I pressed it flat against the steering wheel until it settled.
The stranger’s words faded, but the echo of them stayed. Not because they were wrong. But because they weren’t the whole truth.
The whole truth was this: Elliot wasn’t asking me to be his saviour. He was asking me to stay. And I had decided that staying was more dangerous than leaving.
That thought felt unbearable in the growing light of a new day.
By the time the sky bruised into pale pink and gold, I already knew where I was going. I sat there for another full minute, anyway. Afraid that if I moved, I’d make the wrong thing real. Not to undo what I’d done. Not to erase it. Just to be there when the world started again.
I started the engine, like I was choosing something I didn’t yet deserve.
The cliffs were washed in early light when I arrived. Everything looked softer in the morning—less sharp, less cruel. Even the ocean sounded different, its roar dulled into something rhythmic, almost patient.
And he was there. Exactly where I’d expected him to be. Standing near the edge like he belonged to the horizon more than to the earth.
Same clothes. Still damp, the fabric darkened in places where the night had soaked into him.
His hair was tangled from wind and salt, damp dark curls clinging to his forehead and neck. His shoulders were narrow inside the oversized hoodie, like he was trying to disappear inside it. Bare feet in the cold dirt.
He was too small. Too thin. Too breakable.
My chest tightened painfully. “Elliot.”
He turned slowly. Bloodshot eyes locked with mine then looked away just as quickly. His face was blotchy, stained with salt tracks from the tears he’d cried. There was a bruise blooming on his cheekbone where he must’ve hit the sand when he fell… It nearly undid me.
His hand kept worrying at his sleeve. Rubbing at his forearm like the skin underneath it hurt. Not absently. Deliberately. Like he was trying to quiet something that wouldn’t stay quiet.
My stomach dropped. “Elliot…” My voice came out rougher than I meant it to.
His fingers stilled. Then he tugged the cuff of his hoodie down another inch. Just enough to hide whatever had been there. “I’m fine,” he said too quickly.
The lie sat between us, raw and bleeding and unacknowledged
My hands clenched at my sides like they were looking for something to hold. Or hit. Or fix. My chest hurt in a way I didn’t recognize. Sharp and nauseating, like I’d swallowed something that didn’t want to be inside me.
I had done this. Not with my hands—but with my absence.
“You came back,” he said faintly, looking out across the vast expanse of ocean.
There it was. Not relief. Not welcome. Just the quiet shock of someone who had already rehearsed being alone. It hurt more than anger would have.
“You didn’t have to,” he said. His fingers kept worrying at the sleeve of his hoodie, tugging it down over his wrist like he was hiding something from the air. “You already proved you can leave.” The words were soft. The blade inside them wasn’t. “I figured that part out last night.”
That landed harder than anything he could have thrown at me. “Elliot—”
“You don’t have to explain,” he cut in quickly. Too quickly. “You don’t owe me anything. I get it.”
His mouth curved into something that wasn’t a smile. It was what he wore when he was trying to make himself smaller than the pain.
“You’re good at leaving,” he added softly. “You make it look like kindness.”
“I was wrong.”
That made him look at me. Really look. “What does that mean?” he asked.
“It means I don’t get to decide what hurts you from a distance,” I said. “It means I don’t get to call abandonment protection just because it makes me feel less guilty.”
His throat bobbed. The tip of his tongue wet his lips as his eyes widened at my words.
“I don’t want to be the thing that breaks you,” I said.
His voice came out barely there. “Then don’t. Don’t say things you can’t stand behind. That’s worse.”
Not pleading. Not demanding. Just stating the rule of his survival.
The simplicity of it cracked something open in me. Fear flared—bright and fast—that I was about to become something I couldn’t step away from again. I stepped into him before I could overthink it. Not a grab. Not a pull. Just close enough that our space disappeared.
He froze. Not the stillness of relief. The stillness of impact. Like my nearness had hit a bruise he hadn’t known was still tender.
When I reached for him, his breath hitched—sharp, startled—and he flinched before he could stop himself. Not away. Not exactly. Just… braced. Like part of him was still waiting for the hurt to come.
That broke me.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered instinctively, before I even knew what I was apologizing for.
His jaw tightened. Seconds seemed to stretch into minutes. Then—slowly—he let himself step into me. His forehead pressed into my chest. His fingers clutched the back of my top like he was afraid I might evaporate. Like he knew people could vanish without warning.
His body was cold. Still. Too still.
I wrapped my arms around him slowly. Carefully. Like touching something already cracked. His breath shuddered once. Then again. But when I brushed my lips over the top of his head he finally melted into me.
A sound slipped out of him—not a sob, not a word—just the sound of someone finally setting something heavy down.
I closed my eyes and pressed my cheek into his hair. He smelled of salt and smoke and ocean and grief. “You don’t disappear,” I murmured. “Not on my watch.”
He swallowed. “I feel like I could,” he whispered.
My arms tightened instinctively. Not in possession. Not in control. Just anchoring. “Then lean on me,” I said softly. “I’ve got you.”
And he did as I held him close. Heart hammering against my ribs because in that moment, he needed someone to be solid. I was finally strong enough to do that. Because I realized I was unable to walk away from him again. Not without tearing myself to pieces in the process.
That was the dangerous part. Not that he needed me. That he stopped trembling when I held him.
His breathing evened out slowly, like waves after a storm. The rigid line of his shoulders softened. His fingers loosened their grip on my top but didn’t let go. Just… rested there. Trusting that I would still be there when he needed to hold on again.
I felt it happen in real time—the shift from survival to safety.
From panic to dependence. Something inside me went cold with the understanding of it.
Because I knew that feeling. I knew what it was like to let someone become the place where the pain stopped.
Learned how badly it could go wrong. I stayed still anyway.
Minutes passed, maybe longer. The light crept higher over the ocean, gilding the edges of his hair, catching on his wet lashes. He didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. His whole body had already decided where it belonged.
“You can let go now,” I said softly.
He didn’t. Not stubbornly or in defiance. Just… not yet. “I know,” he whispered.
His forehead pressed a little harder into my chest as if his body hadn’t gotten the message. His shoulders rose as he inhaled deeply, a soft sigh passing his lips. My hands tightened before I could stop them.
That scared me. The instinct was too fast. Too sure. Too much like a claiming. I loosened my grip deliberately. Not enough for him to notice, but enough for me to feel it.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I murmured, more to myself than him.
He exhaled softly. Like that was all the answer I needed. That was another dangerous part. That my words mattered that much. That my presence could quiet the storm in him.
That I could become the thing he reached for instead of learning how to stand when I wasn’t there.
My eyes fell closed as I tipped my forehead into his hair and let his sweet lavender and honey scent surround me. This is how it starts, I thought. Not with a burning desire, but with relief. With someone finally not leaving. With that same person being enough.
That is exactly why I had to be careful.
Eventually, gently, I shifted. I wasn’t pulling away. Just enough that he had to lift his head. He did, slowly. Almost reluctantly, blinking against the light like someone waking from a dream. Those wide beguiling hazel eyes with flecks of green and gold glistened in the sunlight.
We were too close. Close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath on my mouth. Close enough that my body noticed before my brain did. Close enough that I could feel the heat of him though the morning chill.
His gaze dropped. The air felt too thin between us. Like it had been pulled tight. Just for a second. To my mouth. Then back to my eyes. The tension between us thickened. Charged. Like something waiting to be named. The world narrowed. Wind. Salt. Heat.
The sky behind him was bleeding into scarlet and gold, the sun tearing its way up from the horizon like something violent and alive. Everything felt too bright. Too loud. Too much.
His pupils were blown wide. His cheeks were flushed—not with warmth, but with something fevered and unsteady. Like standing too close to a fire.
“You don’t hold someone like that,” he whispered, barely audible now, “unless you’re already theirs.”
The words didn’t accuse. They claimed. We leaned in at the same time. Drawn. Not chosen. Like gravity had finally won. Like whatever rule we were pretending to live by had lost.
Our foreheads touched. Our noses brushed.
His breath stuttered. So did mine. It wasn’t a kiss.
Just the ghost of one—already formed, already waiting.
My breath tangled with his. His lips parted.
And then fear slammed into me. I pulled back like I’d touched fire.
The space between us snapped open like a wound.
“I held you to keep you from breaking,” I said hoarsely. My voice dropped. Honest in a way I hadn’t meant to be. “I didn’t know I’d start breaking too.”
The light went out of his eyes. Not all at once. Just… dimmed. Like someone turning down a lamp in a room that had been warm. “Oh,” he said. It wasn’t surprise. It was recognition. Of a pattern.
“Oh,” he said again. But this time it meant something else.
His arms fell away from me. Not fast. Not angry. Just… done. “Right,” he murmured. “Okay.”
The word wasn't an agreement. It was a retreat. He stepped back first. Just one step. But it felt like he’d crossed an ocean.
“You okay?” I asked.
He nodded, after a pause. Then whisper soft, so quiet I almost didn’t catch it. “Don’t disappear.”
My heart stuttered and missed a beat. Those two almost silent words meant everything. “I won’t.” Even as I said it, I felt the shape of the lie forming—not in the words, but in the way I already knew I would have to pull back before this became something neither of us could survive.
I gave his shoulder a brief squeeze before I let it fall. “Come on. Let's go home.”
Elliot hesitated, just for a second, and stepped back. Not far. But far enough that the cold rushed in where his body had been. The absence of him was louder than the ocean.
“I’ll walk,” he said quietly.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know.”
That word again. Not defiant. Not bitter. Resigned. He turned toward the path before I could say anything else. Before I could ruin him further with comfort I wasn’t ready to stand behind.
“Elliot,” I said. He paused but didn’t turn around.
“I’m here,” I told him. “I’m not gone.”
His shoulders lifted on a breath. Then dropped. “I know,” he said again.
The sky was fully aflame now. Scarlet and gold and burning at the edges like the world itself was on fire. And he was walking away from me through it.
Alone.
I understood something then that hurt worse than guilt. Not that I could hurt him—that I already had. That I was now a wound he would carry with him. And I didn’t know how to touch him without making it deeper.
The ocean kept moving.
So did he.
And I stayed there. Finally understanding that loving him was going to cost something. I just didn’t know yet how much.