12. Dean #2
“What do you need?” I ask, my voice shifting back into something steadier, something that doesn’t carry everything else under it. “You want me to call the doc? Food? Anything?”
She shakes her head, her eyes softer now, heavier in a way that tells me the exhaustion is finally catching up to her. “I just want to sleep.”
“Come on.” I lead her down the hall, not touching her, but close enough that I can reach her if I need to. The spare room door is already open, the bed untouched from earlier, like it’s been waiting for her without either of us realizing it.
She doesn’t hesitate. She climbs in, pulling the covers up around herself like her body already knows what it needs, already giving in to it. I stay where I am. Near the door. Watching. Making sure she’s settled before I move. Her eyes find mine before they close.
It’s not quick. Not passing. She holds my gaze for a second longer than she usually would, like she’s making sure I’m still there, like she needs to see it before she lets herself give in to the exhaustion that’s been pulling at her all night.
“Thank you for coming for me tonight.” The words don’t hit fast. They don’t land sharp. They settle. Slow. Deep. Somewhere in the center of my chest where everything else has been sitting too tight since I walked into that hallway.
Because it isn’t just the words. It’s the way she says them. Quiet. Honest. Stripped of everything she usually puts between herself and the rest of the world. Like she’s not trying to soften it. Not trying to make it easier. Just giving it to me the way it is.
I nod. It’s the only thing I trust myself to do. Because anything more than that—any words I let out right now—are going to carry something I don’t want her to hear yet. Something too close to the surface. Something that hasn’t settled into something safe.
Her eyes close after that. Slow. Like she’s letting go piece by piece instead of all at once.
Her body sinks into the mattress, the tension I’ve been watching all night finally loosening in small, quiet ways.
Her shoulders drop. Her breathing shifts, not steady yet, but closer.
Like she’s finding it again instead of forcing it.
I stay where I am. At the edge of the room.
Watching. Not because I don’t trust her to sleep.
Because I need to see it. Need to see her settle into something that looks like rest instead of survival.
Need to know she made it here. That nothing followed her through that door.
That she’s not still holding herself up out of instinct alone.
It takes longer than I expect. Long enough that the quiet starts to press in around me again. Long enough that my body starts to shift without asking me what I want to do next.
I step back into the hallway, closing the door halfway behind me instead of all the way.
Enough that I can still hear her if something changes.
Enough that I’m not cutting myself off from her completely.
And then I move. Not with purpose. Not toward anything.
Just… moving. Through my own space like it doesn’t feel the same anymore, like something about it shifted the second I brought her into it.
My hands drag through my hair once, twice, my jaw tightening and releasing without actually settling.
The red hasn’t gone anywhere. It sits under everything.
Quieter now. But not gone. It waits. And that’s what makes it worse.
Because now I have space to think. Space to replay it.
The mark on her face. The way she flinched.
The way she kept her head down like she didn’t want anyone to see.
My steps slow. And for a second, I just stand there, the quiet of my own place pressing in around me in a way that doesn’t feel like control anymore.
It feels like distance. And I don’t want distance.
Not from her. I don’t remember deciding to change. But I do. At some point, I strip down to shorts, the fabric pulling over my skin without thought, without focus, like my body is moving toward something before my head catches up.
By the time I’m back at her door, I already know I’m not walking away again.
I push it open slowly. The room is dim. Quiet.
She’s asleep. Not curled tight anymore. Not braced.
Just… resting, her body finally giving in to it in a way that tells me she couldn’t have held herself up much longer if she tried.
I stand there longer than I should. Watching.
Taking it in. Making sure. Because something in me doesn’t fully believe it yet.
Doesn’t fully trust that she’s here and not there.
That she’s safe and not still in that apartment trying to figure out how to leave without making it worse.
I move carefully, stepping inside, letting the door stay slightly open behind me.
The mattress dips slightly when I sit on the edge, the movement small, controlled, but it’s enough.
She stirs. A shift. A breath catching halfway before settling again.
Her voice comes out soft, thick with sleep.
“Dean… what are you doing?” I don’t answer right away. It sits too close to everything else I’ve been holding back all night.
I turn slightly toward her, keeping my voice low, steady, something she can hear without having to wake fully.
“Let me stay.” The words come out quieter than I expect.
Not forced. Not sharp. Just… there. “Please.” Her eyes widen.
Because I don’t ask for things. Not like this.
“I need to know you’re here,” I add, my hand hovering for a second before settling lightly against her arm, careful, controlled, like I’m testing the space instead of taking it.
“That you’re okay.” The rest of it stays where it belongs.
The part that says I don’t trust myself to leave this room without going back to finish something I started the second I saw her face.
The part that says I don’t trust what happens if I don’t feel her here, breathing, solid, real.
“I don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t.” My voice stays low.
Soft. Nothing like what’s sitting underneath it. And I wait. For her to push me away.
Or let me stay.