Chapter 26 #2
"Ethan... please..." She's begging now, and it drives me wild. I speed up, pounding into her pussy, the bed creaking under us. My hand slips between her legs again, thumb on her clit, and she comes a second time, harder, her walls pulsing around me.
That pulls me over the edge. I bury myself deep, groaning as I cum inside her, filling her up with hot spurts. We stay like that, locked together, my weight pressing her into the mattress as we both catch our breath.
I roll off her eventually, pulling her into my side. She's fragile, still trembling a little, so I wrap an arm around her, holding her close.
"You okay?" I ask softly, kissing her forehead.
She nods against my chest, a small smile breaking through. For the first time tonight, she looks a little less broken.
She rests on my chest for a few minutes, and I stroke my hand slowly down her back, grounding us both.
She whispers, “You make me feel… safe.”
I kiss the top of her head. “Good. That’s all I want.”
But as soon as she sits up, something changes. Her expression shutters. Her breathing quickens. Her hands tremble as she pushes her t-shirt down.
“Hey,” I say softly. “What’s happening?”
She blinks too fast, eyes glassy. “Nothing. I just— I shouldn’t have done this. I don’t know. It’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” I tell her. “And you don’t have to explain.”
But she’s already halfway out the door, shaking her head.
“I’ll— I’ll see you in the morning,” she says, voice tight.
And before I can get up, she’s gone.
A few seconds later, I hear her footsteps rushing downstairs. A door closing.
And I know she’s not okay.
I know she’s breaking again, alone.
And even though everything in me wants to go after her, kick down every door if I have to—something in my chest snaps.
Fuck this.
I’m off the bed and down the hallway before I even realize I’m not wearing a damn thing. The warm air hits my skin as I throw open the back door and jog naked and barefoot into the yard.
She’s halfway across her porch, T-shirt pulled down and arms wrapped around herself, shoulders shaking. Like she’s trying to outrun her own heartbeat.
“Lucky,” I call out, not loud, but firm.
She flinches—actually flinches—and that alone guts me.
She doesn’t turn around.
I take the steps two at a time and reach her before she gets to her door. My hand closes around her wrist—not tight, just enough to make her stop running from the only person who would never hurt her.
She freezes. Her breath is sharp, panicked.
“Hey,” I say quietly, stepping in front of her. “Look at me.”
When her eyes lift, they’re glassy, frantic, like she’s bracing for impact.
“Why did you follow me?” she whispers, voice cracking. “I said I was fine.”
“You’re shaking,” I say. “You’re not fine.”
She squeezes her eyes shut, tears spilling over. “I shouldn’t have— I shouldn’t have done any of that. I don’t know what I’m doing, Ethan. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know how to— how to be this close to someone and not fall apart.”
“Okay,” I murmur. “Then fall apart.”
Her breath hitches.
“Fall apart,” I repeat. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
She shakes her head violently. “You don’t get it. When I run, people leave. Or they tell me I’m too much. Or they try to fix me. And I don’t want you to—”
I step closer, chest brushing her trembling hands.
“If you run,” I tell her, voice low and steady, “I’ll run with you.”
She opens her eyes, startled.
“You hear me?” I continue. “You take two steps, I’ll take two with you. You collapse, I’ll catch you. You need air, I’ll open every fucking window. But I’m not letting you go down there alone.”
Her lips part, but nothing comes out. The wind stirs her hair. She looks so small, so wrecked, it makes my throat burn.
I cup her jaw gently, thumb brushing her tear-damp cheek.
“You’re not too much,” I say. “You’re not broken. You’re overwhelmed. And you don’t have to hide that from me.”
Her breath shudders, and she leans into my touch like she can’t help it.
“I don’t know how to stop running,” she whispers.
“You don’t have to stop.” I pull her closer, pressing her against my bare chest. “Just don’t run alone.”
For a long moment, she stands there—not clinging, not kissing, just breathing against me, letting herself be held while her world shakes.
I wrap my arms around her, grounding her the only way I know how.
And for the first time since she bolted, her breathing starts to slow.
For a while, all she does is breathe against me, small and trembling, her cheek pressed to my chest like she’s trying to anchor herself to the sound of my heartbeat.
I hold her tighter.
Not because I’m trying to trap her.
But because she finally stopped running.
“Lucky,” I murmur into her hair, “come back to my place.”
She stiffens—not pulling away, just freezing like the word inside is a cliff edge.
“I can’t,” she whispers. “I’ll… fall apart again.”
“Okay,” I say. “Then fall apart inside, not out here while I’m looking like some streaker on your porch.”
Her laugh is a broken puff of breath. “Ethan…”
I tilt her chin gently so she’s looking at me. Her eyes are red, lashes clumped with tears, hair sticking to her face in little damp strands.
“Come inside,” I repeat softly. “Let me take care of you for tonight. Nothing else. No pressure. No expectations.”
She swallows, gaze flicking over me—bare skin, the rainy chill raising goosebumps over my shoulders—and something changes in her expression.
Guilt. Or maybe realization.
“You’re… you’re naked,” she whispers, like she’s only just registering it.
“I noticed,” I deadpan.
For the first time since she ran, a ghost of a smile twitches at her lips.
I brush my thumb across her cheek again. “Lucky. It’s just my home. Just you and me. You don’t have to be strong right now.”
Her eyes fill again, but this time she nods—just once. Small. Fragile. Brave.
“Okay,” she breathes.
I take her hand, lacing my fingers through hers, and lead her back across the yard, up the porch steps. She follows close, as if she’s afraid that if she lets go, she’ll disappear into the dark.
Inside, the coolness of the room wraps around us.
I grab the first thing I can reach—a hoodie off the hook—and pull it on. She stands there watching, still shaking subtly, oversized t-shirt hanging to mid-thigh, hair wild and damp, cheeks blotchy from crying.
She looks like she survived a storm.
She is a storm.
“Sit,” I say gently, motioning toward the couch.
She lowers herself onto the cushions, pulling her knees to her chest. Not curled up to hide—but like she’s protecting something tender inside her.
I grab a blanket, drape it over her legs, then sit next to her—not touching, just close enough that she can lean in if she wants.
She does.
Slowly, tentatively, her shoulder finds mine. Then her head. Then she just… lets go. A soft exhale leaves her, like she’s finally someplace safe enough to breathe.
I slide my arm around her, and she melts into my side.
No words. No explanations. No tension.
Just breathing.
After a long stretch of silence, she murmurs, “I didn’t run because of you.”
“I know.”
“I ran because I’m… scared of myself. Of how messed up I am.”
“You’re allowed to be scared,” I say. “Just tell me when you are. Don’t disappear.”
She presses her forehead against my ribs, voice barely a breath. “I don’t want to disappear.”
“Good.”
My hand slowly drifts up and down her spine, steady and rhythmic. Her breathing syncs with it, softening.
Minutes pass. Calm settles.
She doesn’t fall apart again.
She doesn’t run.
She just stays.
Wrapped in a blanket.
Wrapped in my arms.
Wrapped in a peace she’s never been given the space to feel.
And for the first time all night, she whispers something that sounds like the truth she’s been choking down on:
“I feel safe with you.”
I press a soft kiss to the top of her head.
“You are.”
She’s curled against me, small and warm under the blanket, breathing like someone who keeps forgetting how. Every few minutes her fingers twitch—like she’s bracing for something that isn’t coming.
I keep my hand moving slowly up and down her spine, the way I used to do for Lily when she had nightmares. Same rhythm. Same patience.
Lucky exhales shakily and sinks a little deeper into my side.
Her weight is subtle but certain. Trusting.
It guts me.
After everything she told me tonight… after everything she’s survived… she’s here. Leaning on me. Letting me hold what the world nearly crushed out of her.
Her breath warms my chest.
Her hair smells like rain and soap.
Her heartbeat gradually steadies against my ribs.
Then, so quietly I almost miss it, her muscles loosen. Her shoulders drop. Her fingers unclench.
She falls asleep.
Just like that—like her body finally decided it can stop fighting for a while.
I freeze for a second, not wanting to jostle her. She’s draped half across my torso now, cheek pressed to the space over my heart, legs tucked under the blanket. The oversized shirt she threw on slips off one shoulder, revealing a patch of bare skin marked faintly from where I held her earlier.
And I’m hit with a pulse of emotion so sharp it almost knocks the air out of me.
Christ… she’s beautiful.
Not the stage version.
Not the glossy magazine persona.
Just her.
Raw.
Soft.
Exhausted.
Real.
My throat tightens.
I study her face—lashes smudged with dried tears, lips parted slightly as she breathes, a faint furrow still between her brows like she’s waiting to be startled awake.
What the hell did they do to her?
How many years did she go without someone holding her like this? Without someone staying?
I adjust the blanket, tucking it gently around her shoulders. She shifts, just a little, and her hand ends up on my stomach, fingers curling into the fabric of my hoodie like she’s anchoring herself to me even in sleep.
Something in my chest aches.
I should move.
Turn out the lights.
Take her to bed where she’ll be more comfortable.
But I don’t.