Chapter 41
forty-one
Liana
The game fills the apartment in bursts of sound that don’t quite land the way they used to.
The sharp cut of skates across ice, the crack of the puck against the boards, the low swell of the crowd rising and falling like a living thing, it should feel familiar, grounding even, something that pulls me back into a version of my life that still makes sense.
Instead, it feels distant.
Like it belongs to someone else.
I sit curled into the corner of the couch, the blanket pulled loosely over my legs, my body angled toward the television but not really watching it, not fully.
My side aches in that slow, persistent way that never quite disappears, a reminder threaded through every small movement, every breath that goes a little too deep.
They’re out there.
Jackson.
Zach.
Playing. Living. And I’m here.
Paused. Suspended somewhere between what happened and whatever comes next. My eyes drift away from the screen, pulled instead toward the movement behind me.
Elijah hasn’t stopped pacing since the game started.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
His footsteps are controlled, measured, quiet enough that they shouldn’t be distracting, but they are, because there’s something underneath them that doesn’t settle, something tight and coiled that keeps him moving like if he stops for too long, everything he’s holding in place will start to unravel.
His phone is in his hand, his attention split between whatever is happening on the screen and everything else that exists outside these walls, outside this apartment, outside this moment.
Security.
Threats.
His family.
The things he doesn’t say out loud.
“Elijah.”
My voice is softer than I intend, but it cuts through the space anyway.
He stops.
Not gradually.
Not like he was already slowing down.
He just… stops.
His head turns slightly, his gaze finding mine, and for a second, I can see the shift in him, the way he pulls himself back into the room, back into me, back into here.
“Please sit with me.”
There’s a pause.
A small one.
But it’s there.
His fingers tighten slightly around his phone, like it takes effort not to look back down at it, not to keep moving, not to return to whatever it is that’s keeping him in that constant state of alert.
“I’m okay,” I add quietly, because I can see the instinct already building in him, the resistance, the need to justify why he shouldn’t stop. “Everything’s fine right now. I’m safe.”
His jaw tightens.
Not in disagreement.
In conflict.
“But I need you to sit with me,” I say, softer now, because this isn’t about logic, it’s not about convincing him, it’s about reaching him, about asking for something I shouldn’t have to ask for but do anyway.
“I need you here.”
That lands.
I see it in the way his shoulders shift slightly, the way his focus sharpens, the way something in his expression flickers before settling into something more controlled.
Slowly, he lowers the phone. Sets it down on the table beside him. And then he moves slowly.
Like every step toward me is something he’s choosing rather than something he’s pulled into.
He sits beside me.
Close enough that I can feel the warmth of him, the solid presence of him, the weight of him settling into the space beside me, but he doesn’t touch me.
Not straight away. And that’s what I feel.
Not the distance.
Not the space.
The absence.
Before everything, he used to reach for me without thinking.
Like it was instinct.
Like I was something he couldn’t not touch.
His hand would find my body, my waist, my thigh, my neck, pulling me into him, grounding me, claiming me, reminding me in every second that I was his and he was mine and there was no space between those two things.
Now, he sits beside me like he’s afraid of me.
Like I might break if he touches me the wrong way. Like I’m something fragile. Like I’m something he has to be careful with. And I hate how much that hurts.
I shift slightly, the movement pulling at my side, and I try to ignore it as I turn toward him just enough to close some of that space myself.
My hand lifts.
I hesitate for half a second, and then I reach for him anyway, my fingers brushing against his arm.
He stills.
Not dramatically.
Not pulling away.
But there’s a moment, just a fraction, where he doesn’t immediately respond.
Where he doesn’t meet me halfway. Where he doesn’t pull me into him the way he used to.
And that hesitation lands deeper than anything else.
It makes me hesitate too. Makes me want to pull back.
Makes me wonder if I imagined what we were before all of this.
“I just…” My voice falters slightly, and I hate that it does, hate that I feel like I have to ask for this. “Can you… just hold me?”
The words feel small coming out.
Too small for what I actually mean.
Too small for what I actually need.
For a second, I think he’s going to say no.
Not with words.
But with silence.
With hesitation.
With that same careful distance he’s been holding. And then, slowly, he moves.
His arm comes around me, settling across my shoulders, pulling me into his side.
It’s gentle.
Careful.
Measured.
And I let myself lean into it anyway, pressing into him, fitting myself against him like I used to, like my body still remembers exactly how we’re meant to fit together.
But it’s not the same.
I can feel it immediately.
The restraint.
The control.
The way he’s holding back.
Like he’s containing himself instead of giving himself to me.
I rest my head against his shoulder, my hand coming to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under my palm, grounding, familiar, but distant in a way that makes something ache deep in my chest.
I miss him.
Not physically.
He’s right here.
But I miss the way he used to feel.
The way he used to touch me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
The way he used to look at me like he couldn’t get enough. The way he used to want me. Now, he treats me like something broken. Like something he has to protect from everything.
Even himself. And I understand why.
I do.
I understand the fear. I understand what he saw. What he almost lost. But that understanding doesn’t stop the ache. Doesn’t stop the part of me that feels like I’ve lost something too.
Like I’m still here, but I’m not fully me to him anymore.
The game continues in the background.
Voices.
Movement.
A life that is still happening whether I’m part of it or not.
My eyes drift back to the screen for a moment, watching the blur of bodies moving across the ice, watching the rhythm of it, the familiarity of it, the way it used to pull me in completely.
Jackson moves fast.
Sharp.
Focused.
Alive.
And something twists in my chest at the sight of it. That’s his world. That’s his dream. And he’s out there living it, while I’m here.
Stuck.
Held in place.
And suddenly, I can’t sit still anymore.
I shift slightly, pulling away just enough to reach for the edge of the couch, my fingers curling into the fabric as I try to ground myself in something that isn’t this feeling of being suspended.
“I need to do something,” I say quietly.
Elijah’s arm tightens slightly around me.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, because I don’t, not exactly. “I just… I can’t keep sitting here like this. I need to… think. I need to do something that feels like me.”
There’s a pause.
A tension in the air that I can feel him working through.
“What do you want?”
The question is careful. Measured. But it’s there. I swallow slightly before answering.
“My laptop.”
He goes still.
“Why?”
“Because I want to write.”
The words come out steadier than I feel.
Because this, this part of me, it’s still there. Even under everything else. Even under the fear. Even under the ache. I need to feel it again. I need to know it’s still mine.
Elijah studies me for a moment, his gaze searching, like he’s trying to understand something deeper than what I’ve actually said.
Then he nods once.
“Okay.”
He stands, moving away from me, crossing the room to where my bag sits, pulling the laptop out and bringing it back without another word.
When he hands it to me, our fingers brush. And for a second, just a second, I feel something there.
Something familiar.
Something that almost feels like before.
Then it’s gone.
I open the laptop slowly, settling it on my lap, my fingers hovering over the keyboard as the screen lights up.
The game continues.
The world continues.
And I sit there, caught between everything that’s happened and everything I’m trying to find again.
If I write, if I can lose myself in it, maybe I can find that version of me again.
The one they saw. The one they pulled out of me. The one that wasn’t afraid. The one that had something to reach for.
My fingers press down on the keys. Slow at first. Then faster. Words forming. Thoughts spilling. Something opening up inside me that feels like a breath I haven’t taken in days.
I don’t stop.
I don’t think.
I just let it come.
And as I do, as I feel myself slipping into it, into that space where everything else fades just enough for me to exist again, I realize what I’m chasing.
Not just the story.
Not just the words.
But the feeling.
Of being myself. Of belonging in my own life. Of being theirs, fully.
Not carefully.
Not protected.
Not held at a distance.
Wanted.
Claimed.
Seen.
I keep writing. Because I don’t know how else to get back there. And I need to. I need to find that part of me again.
Before it disappears completely.