Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Echo
Bambi doesn’t argue when I tell her I’m taking her home. That’s how I know something is wrong. She follows me out into the rain without protest, moving stiffly as if each step requires conscious effort.
I stay close enough to intervene, but I don’t touch her. My hand hovers just behind her back. She drifts into the space between us. Not leaning on me exactly, but staying close as if she needs something solid nearby.
Her hands are shaking. Not violently and not enough that anyone else would notice, but just enough that I do.
I open the passenger door for her and wait. She hesitates for a moment, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag, then she slides into the seat and stares straight ahead. I shut the door gently and move around to the driver’s side.
When I get in, I take a moment to look at her before I start the engine. It’s the first time I’ve seen her like this. Unguarded. Soft. Still. This is the version she keeps to herself, the one stripped of all her defenses. Bambi in her rawest form.
She’s always been pretty, but right now, her beauty has nothing to do with effort or awareness, and everything to do with who she is. The honesty of it is unsettling.
The drive to her apartment is silent, and the only sound flowing through the car is the windshield wipers squeaking across the glass.
I keep my eyes on the road, but my awareness never drifts from her.
I register everything about her without even trying to.
The way her hands are folded tightly in her lap.
The way her knee bounces before she notices and forces it still.
The way she keeps swallowing like her emotions are clogging up her throat.
“You okay?” I ask, chancing a glance at her.
She gives me a stiff nod, without looking back at me, and keeps her eyes locked on the road. I don’t believe her, not even for a second, but that doesn’t feel like it matters right now.
Every question I’ve asked her since we met was designed to get closer to her without pushing. To map her gently. To learn the shape of all her defenses. But none of those questions could have prepared me for this.
Our building comes into view sooner than I expect, and I pull into my usual spot in the garage and turn off my engine. The sudden quiet presses around us, and as I step out and cross over to her side of the car, I wonder if she’s noticed that I’m parked in my unit’s assigned spot.
“Come on,” I say quietly, opening her door. “I’ll walk you up.”
She nods and lets me help her out of the car.
Her balance is off as we walk to the elevator and ride it up to her floor. She fumbles with her keys, then stops and squeezes her eyes shut, like the process has suddenly become too much for her to handle. I gently take them from her and unlock it.
She steps inside and slips her shoes off at the door, while I stay at the threshold, already preparing to leave. I know it’s time. This is the point where I give her space and don’t let this turn into something she didn’t ask for. Then I feel her hand close around my wrist.
Her hold is hesitant and soft, and she glares at her own hand like she’s not even sure how it got there.
“Do you want me to come in, Bambi?”
She nods and finally looks up at me as her hand slips away.
I kick off my shoes, shuck off my suit jacket, and follow her inside.
Bambi’s living room is exactly what I expected it to be. It’s warm. Lived-in. And smells faintly of paperback books and vanilla florals. I’ve seen the living space layout before. It’s the same standard floor plan as mine, but it’s my first time seeing how she fills it.
She drops onto the couch, pulls her legs up, and stares into nothing as a shiver runs through her.
Hating how cold she looks, I grab the blanket and drape it over her shoulders, then crouch near the fireplace and turn it on.
The gas ignites with a low rush, flames catching and settling into a steady glow.
“I’ll make you some tea.”
I move through her kitchen quietly, heating the kettle, finding a box of chamomile, and grabbing two mugs from a cabinet. It feels strange being here like this, doing something so small and ordinary for her.
Once I’m done, I take a seat across from her and hand her a mug. She looks at me then, really looks, and takes a slow sip.
“You want to talk about it?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“Okay.”
We sit there in silence while the fire crackles softly in the fireplace. She stares into it, her expression distant and unfocused.
I hate that I don’t know how to fix this. I can’t threaten it. I can’t remove it. I can’t negotiate with it until it breaks. All I can do is be here for her.
I watch her for a while, taking in the way her shoulders slowly relax as the heat settles in, and the way her breathing evens out inch by inch. Eventually, her head tips, resting against the arm of the couch, and she falls asleep without realizing it.
I should go. That’s what makes sense, and it’s what I’ve done every other time when she’s needed me to. I leave before she regrets it, before she can take it back, before she remembers she’s supposed to be afraid of me.
Every other time we’ve interacted, it’s been because I made it happen. I pushed for a response, or a reaction, or a fucking ounce of acknowledgement.
But this time, she gave it to me willingly. She called me. She grabbed my wrist. And, even though I’m sure the circumstances of why she’s even allowing this right now are fucked, she wanted me here.
So I stay where I am, even though it goes against every instinct I have. Even though I already know how this ends. Tomorrow morning will come, and she’ll pull back. She’ll pretend this didn’t happen, and she’ll put distance between us like she always does.
But tonight, I’m here.
And that’s all that fucking matters.