Chapter Thirty Eight
Camille
The silence pressed in once the lights were out, heavy enough that I could hear the uneven rhythm of my own breathing.
Too much silence had never been kind to me because it left room for old memories, for the voices I tried to keep buried.
So without thinking, I grabbed the remote from the nightstand and flicked the TV on.
The soft glow filled the room, muted voices drifting from some late-night sitcom rerun.
I didn’t even care what show it was. I just needed the noise to keep me from drowning in the quiet.
To keep my thoughts from drifting to the days I’d awoken with bruises, or crying kids that quickly triggered yelling.
Hunter didn’t say anything. Didn’t tease. Just adjusted on the bed, his weight shifting slightly as he leaned back against the headboard. I stayed curled under the blanket, eyes fixed on the screen, though I wasn’t watching.
My body betrayed me before my brain could catch up.
Slowly, passively, I let myself lean toward him, as if gravity had decided for me.
My shoulder brushed his arm, tentative, testing.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move away. Instead, he angled slightly, enough that his solid frame was there if I wanted it.
A quiet offer. So I closed my eyes, breathing him in.
His smell was fresh and grounding, the kind of scent that made the tightness in my chest loosen.
“You’re alright,” he murmured, voice low, steady. Not demanding. Not fixing. Just… there. “You don’t have to hold it all together tonight. I’ve got you, Beautiful.”
My throat burned, but no tears came. I was too tired, too wrung out to cry again. So I let myself sink into him, cheek resting lightly against his shoulder, the steady rhythm of his breathing pulling me in.
And then I noticed it. His heartbeat. It was steady, but intense.
Each thud echoed against my ear, against my own uneven breaths.
It wasn’t just a heartbeat; it felt like the walls I had built around myself, the ones I thought were impenetrable, breaking down one by one.
I tried not to think about how dangerous that was.
How terrifying it felt to lean into someone after years of convincing myself I didn’t need to.
But right then, wrapped in his warmth, breathing in cypress and lime, I couldn’t stop myself.
His chest rose and fell beneath my cheek, anchoring me.
His presence was unyielding and impossible to resist, and in his arms I felt safe.
I shifted slightly, allowing my fingers to brush against the fabric of his shirt. The urge to pull back, to apologize for needing too much, flickered through me. But before I could, his hand moved, resting lightly on the blanket near my side. Just close enough to remind me he wasn’t going anywhere.
“You’re alright.” He murmured again, his voice low and certain.
My eyelids grew heavy, the soft flicker of the TV blurring into nothing.
My body was heavy now, exhaustion pulling me under, but I fought it, afraid this fragile peace might vanish if I closed my eyes.
I felt his fingers brushing lightly against my curls.
Slow. Gentle. Almost absent-minded, like he wasn’t even aware of the comfort it gave me.
He twisted a strand around his finger, then let it fall, only to smooth it back again.
The simple rhythm was as grounding as his heartbeat beneath my ear.
Every time he touched my hair, the knot of tension in my chest unraveled a little more.
My breath evened out, eyelids growing heavier, the world blurring at the edges.
I should have pulled back. I should have said something to break the spell, reminded him, or maybe reminded myself that this was temporary, that he didn’t owe me this kind of tenderness. But I didn’t.
Instead, I let my cheek press deeper against his chest, a quiet giggle slipping out of me at the way he toyed with my curls.
He chuckled softly in return, the sound rumbling beneath me. “What’s funny?” he murmured.
“Nothing,” I whispered, words already thick with sleep. “Just… feels nice.”
And with that, the last of my walls lowered. His hand kept combing gently through my curls, safe in the warmth of him. And that night I drifted off not in fear, not in loneliness, but with someone reminding me, simply by staying, that I wasn’t too much.