Raven
His hand closes around mine as he pulls me into him. His body is warm and solid. The familiar weight of his arm settles at my back as the music moves through us, something slow and steady, and I fall into it easily, my body finding the rhythm like it’s something we’ve done a hundred times before.
I let my head tip back and take him in. The world narrows down to his face. To the way he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing that matters in his world.
His hand on my back is firm. It leaves no space for doubt. I feel it all the way through me, that quiet certainty, the way he grounds me without trying.
His thumb shifts slightly against me as we move, a small, absent motion that feels too familiar to notice until I do, until I realize how easily I lean into it, how naturally I follow where he leads without ever feeling like I’m being pulled.
Like I’m choosing it.
Choosing him.
My hands rest against his shoulders, sliding just slightly as we turn, feeling the strength there, the warmth of him beneath my palms, the way he fits into every space.
I smile without meaning to, because with him, I’m already home.
And then I hear laughter.
I turn toward it without thinking, my hand slipping from his as something small runs past us, quick and bright. The sound of it pulling something loose in my chest before I understand why.
A little girl.
Barefoot.
Her deep honey blonde curls catch the light as she runs. Her laughter spills out behind her like she doesn’t know how to hold it in.
She glances back. And when she does, her eyes meet mine.
Amber.
The same as his.
“Hey,” I call, already moving after her, my hand reaching out as she darts just out of reach again.
I hear him behind me.
Close.
Always close.
“Slow down,” he calls, but there’s no real warning in it, just that same warmth, that same steadiness I can feel even without looking.
I don’t slow down.
I reach again.
This time, my fingers catch hers. They’re small.
Warm.
Real.
And I laugh, breathless, the sound of it filling my chest.
And then his hand is on my arm.
It’s different.
Still warm.
“Hey,” he says, closer now, his voice shifting, pulling at something I don’t want to let go of. “Wake up, sweetheart.”
My eyes open slowly, the room coming back in pieces instead of all at once. The dim glow from the small Christmas tree in the corner casts soft color across the walls, red and gold and green stretching gently through the space.
For a second, I don’t move.
I can still feel it. The echo of her hand in mine. The sound of my own laughter sits somewhere inside like it hasn’t caught up yet.
Then I blink, and it’s gone.
My gaze lifts to his, and something in his expression settles me before I can even ask what’s wrong.
“Your dad’s here,” he says quietly, his hand still warm against my arm.
I nod, small, and he leans in, pressing his lips to my temple, lingering there a second longer than he usually does, like he doesn’t want to pull away.
When he straightens, I follow the movement toward the doorway.
He’s standing there.
Not speaking.
Not moving.
Something in my chest tightens, slow and deep, and I lift my hand toward him without thinking, the movement heavier than it should be.
He moves toward me. Every step is slower than I remember, like he’s aware of everything now, like even getting closer to me requires more than it should.
Sam steps back as he approaches, giving him the space without a word, but not before his hand comes up, brief and steady, clasping my dad’s shoulder as they pass. Something unspoken passing between them in that single point of contact. A promise neither of them needs to say out loud.
Sam doesn’t linger, closing the door softly behind him.
My dad reaches the bed and sits on the edge. His hand finds mine.
Rough.
Warm.
Familiar.
It’s different from Sam’s.
My fingers tighten around his before I can stop them.
I try to hold it together, but I fail.
My throat tightens, and the words come out before I can catch them. “I’m scared, Daddy.”
His free hand comes up and cups the side of my face, his palm settling there like it belongs, even though it’s been years since I’ve needed him like this.
“I don’t want to do this,” I whisper, the words slipping out small and unguarded and completely true. “I don’t want to leave you.”
“Don’t,” he says immediately. “Don’t you talk like that.”
There’s no anger or denial. It’s something else. Something desperate.
His forehead presses gently to mine, his breath unsteady now, close enough that I can feel it, the way it catches and tries to even out and doesn’t quite make it.
“You hear me?” he says, softer now, but no less certain. “You don’t get to worry about me. That’s not your job.”
My fingers tighten around his.
“It’s always been my job,” I say, my voice breaking open completely now. “After Mom, it was us. We took care of each other.”
Something in him cracks.
I feel it before I see it.
In the way his breath catches. The way his hand trembles against my cheek like he’s trying to hold it steady and can’t quite manage it anymore.
“I was supposed to keep you safe,” he says, his voice rough, quieter now, like it’s coming from somewhere deeper than he’s used to letting me hear. “That was the deal.”
“You did,” I whisper, shaking my head slightly against his hand. “You always did.”
A sound leaves him.
Something broken.
He pulls back just enough that I can see him. His eyes are wet, the tears slipping free before he can stop them.
I’ve never seen him cry. Not even when we lost Mom. He always held it together.
Always.
“Raven.” My name doesn’t come out right. The sound is uneven, like it’s fighting to find its way out. “I don’t know how to do this again.”
That’s what breaks me.
Because I know exactly what he means.
Losing her nearly destroyed him.
And now—
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, because I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know how to fix this, how to make it easier, how not to leave him behind. How to stay when I can’t.
His head shakes immediately.
“No,” he says, and even through the tears, there’s something firm in it. “No, you don’t get to be sorry for this.”
His hand tightens at my face, his thumb brushing my cheek, catching tears that don’t stop.
“This isn’t on you,” he says, softer now, his voice breaking again, the words uneven but certain. “None of this is on you.”
My fingers tighten around his wrist, holding on, needing him to understand.
“I’m leaving you,” I say, and this time I can’t soften it, can’t make it anything but what it is. “I’m leaving you, Knox, and Sam.”
His face crumples.
There’s no holding it back now.
The tears fall freely, his breath breaking with them, his forehead dropping back to mine like he needs the contact just to stay upright.
“You are not leaving me,” he says, the words unsteady, shaking, but held together by something stronger than the grief pushing through them. “You hear me? You don’t get to go anywhere I can’t find you.”
My chest shatters around that.
His grip tightens, both hands now, one at my face, one wrapped around mine like he’s holding on to something he refuses to lose.
“You will always be my little girl,” he says, and this time it breaks all the way through, his voice giving out on the word, his tears falling against my skin, his breath unsteady and close.
I don’t try to stop my own.
I don’t try to fix it.
I just stay there with him, my hand holding onto his, my forehead resting against his like it’s the only place I know how to be.
The tree lights glow softly behind him.
We don’t say anything else.
There isn’t anything left that needs to be said.
I just stay in his arms.
His hands hold me like I’m his.
Like I always will be.