Chapter Ten #2
Before Kade can answer, Will peeks his head around the kitchen door.
Something loosens in my chest at the sight of him, the first shift I’ve felt that isn’t fear or numbness.
He knew everything I went through. He held me when I cried as a child.
He tried to keep the monsters away even though he was only the help and couldn’t stop the powerful man who hurt me.
Seeing him now feels like stepping into a memory that doesn’t hurt.
Fresh tears burn at the corners of my eyes.
I look up at him, at the man who felt more like a father to me than the one who shares my blood.
My legs move before I think about it, pushing me up from the chair.
The room tilts slightly, but I cross the kitchen anyway, quick and uneven, and throw myself into his arms. He catches me instantly, arms wrapping around me with the same steady strength he used when I was small and terrified and hiding from shadows that weren’t shadows at all.
I bury my face against him, breathing in the familiar scent of laundry soap and old wood polish, the smell of safety from a time when safety was scarce.
He holds me like he’s afraid to let go, like he’s been waiting years for me to come back to him, like he’s been carrying the weight of what happened just as quietly as I have.
My father stands behind us, silent, watching, guilt flickering across his face, but I can’t look at him yet.
Not now. Not while I’m in the arms of the only man who ever tried to save me when no one else would.
“Will…” The name breaks out of me in a cracked whisper as I bury my face in his chest. His familiar cologne wraps around me, something clean and steady, something that belonged to every childhood morning he helped me survive.
My breath stutters against him, another sob threatening to claw its way up my throat, but he holds me tighter, one hand running through my tangled hair with the same gentle rhythm he used when I was small.
“Hey Princess,” he murmurs, voice low and warm, the kind of voice that never once failed me.
His chest tenses beneath my cheek as he takes in the state I’m in, the silence, the shaking, the way I’ve folded in on myself these last three days.
He doesn’t rush me. He doesn’t ask questions.
He just keeps his hand moving through my hair, slow and steady, grounding me with every pass of his fingers.
“You scared me,” he says quietly, not accusing, not heavy, just honest. “You went somewhere I couldn’t reach.
” His thumb brushes the back of my head, gentle enough to make my throat tighten.
“But you’re here now. You came to me. That’s enough. ”
I cling to him harder, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
He shifts just slightly, enough to tuck me closer, enough to make me feel held instead of observed.
“You remember when you were little,” he continues, voice soft, coaxing, “and you’d hide in the pantry when things got too loud?
You wouldn’t talk then either. You’d just sit there with your knees pulled up, waiting for the world to calm down.
” His hand cups the back of my head, thumb stroking the base of my skull.
“I’d sit with you until you were ready to come out.
Sometimes it took hours. Sometimes it took days. But you always came back.”
The memory hits me with a strange, aching clarity.
The dark pantry. The smell of flour and old wood.
Will sitting beside me, knees bent, humming under his breath because he knew I couldn’t handle words yet.
My breath shakes, but something inside me loosens, just a little.
“You don’t have to talk,” he says, voice warm enough to melt the ice in my chest. “You don’t have to explain anything.
Just breathe with me.” He inhales slowly, exaggerated enough for me to feel the rise of his chest. I match it without meaning to, my lungs expanding for the first time without pain.
“That’s it,” he whispers. “There she is.” His hand moves to my cheek, guiding me back just enough so he can see my face.
His eyes soften when he sees the tears, but he doesn’t flinch.
“You’re allowed to feel all of this. You’re allowed to be tired.
You’re allowed to be quiet. But you’re not alone in it.
” He wipes a tear from my cheek with his thumb, the gesture so familiar it makes my chest ache.
“Talk to me when you’re ready. Even if it’s just one word. ”
I swallow, the motion thick and uneven, but it doesn’t hurt as much as it did earlier. My voice feels closer now, not buried under layers of fear.
“I…” The sound is small, but it comes easier this time. Will smiles, soft and proud, like I’ve done something monumental. “There she is,” he murmurs again, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “My girl.”
“Pop.” I whisper to him, the familiar term of endearment transports me back to the days where he would sit with me in his lap, brushing my long hair and humming some old tune, the feeling brings me a sense of warmth, I don’t even bother to look at anyone else in the room, the only thing that matters right now is Will, the anchor that kept me here for so long, that chased the monsters away, that treated me like his own daughter.
Eventually my breathing steadies enough that I can pull back. Not far. Just enough to see his face. His eyes are soft, lined with worry and relief, and he gives me a smile that isn’t forced, isn’t pitying, isn’t fragile.
It’s just Will.
My Will.
My Pop.
The man who never once let me fall without catching me.
He brushes a thumb across my cheek, wiping away a tear I didn’t feel fall. “There she is,” he says quietly, and something inside me shifts. Not fully. Not cleanly. But enough that the fog thins and the room feels less suffocating.
I take a slow breath and step back from him, my legs unsteady but holding.
The kitchen feels different now, less sharp around the edges.
I turn toward the table, toward the plate I abandoned, and walk back to it.
The chair creaks softly as I sit, and for the first time in days, I don’t feel like I’m sinking through the floor.
Will stays close, not hovering, just present.
My father watches from the doorway, still tense, still worried, but quieter now, like he knows this moment isn’t his to touch. Kade sits beside my chair, eyes on me, not pushing, not crowding, just waiting.
I pick up the fork again. My hand still trembles, but not as violently. The bite I take is small, but it doesn’t feel impossible. The food tastes faintly of something warm, something real. I swallow, slow and careful, and the world doesn’t tilt this time.
Kade
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She walks back to the table, slow and uneven, like each step is something she has to remember how to do.
Will stays close behind her, not touching, just present, and I watch the way her shoulders stay relaxed in his orbit.
She sits down, the chair creaking softly under her, and for the first time in three days she doesn’t look like she’s about to fold in on herself again.
She picks up the fork, her hand still trembling but not as violently, and takes another small bite.
It’s nothing. It’s everything. It hits me harder than anything that happened in that basement.
Something warm blooms in my chest, spreading slow and steady, like heat from a fire I didn’t realize had gone cold.
It’s not relief exactly. Relief feels too fragile, too temporary.
This is something heavier, something that settles under my ribs and makes my breath catch.
Watching her sit there, eating, breathing, existing in a way that isn’t hollow, it does something to me I can’t name.
She’s still pale, still exhausted, still frayed at the edges, but she’s here.
She’s choosing to be here. She’s choosing to try.
Her father stays in the doorway, quiet, careful, watching her like she’s made of glass. Will stands a little behind her, arms crossed loosely, eyes soft in a way I’ve never seen on him before. And she sits between them, between all of us, taking small bites like she’s relearning how to live.
I don’t say anything. I don’t move. I just watch her, the way her fingers curl around the fork, the way her eyes stay focused on the plate instead of drifting off into that empty space she’s been trapped in.
Every tiny motion she makes pulls that warmth deeper into my chest, anchoring itself there like it has no intention of leaving.
She doesn’t look at me, but she doesn’t need to. I can feel her coming back in the way she breathes, in the way she swallows, in the way her shoulders don’t shake as much. It’s small. It’s fragile. It’s barely there. But it’s real.
And I sit beside her, letting that warmth settle, letting it grow, letting it fill the space that fear has been occupying for days.
I don’t rush her. I don’t speak. I just stay close, steady, quiet, letting her know without words that I’m here, that I’m not going anywhere, that she can take as long as she needs.
She takes another bite. And that warmth spreads again, slow and sure, blooming in my chest like something I’ve been waiting for without realizing it.
I glance up at Will with a thankful look, giving him a curt nod.
He shrugs like it’s nothing, like he didn’t just pull her out of a place I couldn’t reach, and places a hand on Mara’s shoulder.
He leans down, whispering something into her ear, something soft and familiar, something meant only for her.
I don’t hear the words, but I see the way her lips twitch, the almost-laugh that forms before she catches herself.
It’s small, barely there, but it hits me like a warm pulse under my ribs.
An inside joke. A memory. A piece of her childhood that didn’t hurt.
I can’t help the smile that pulls at my mouth, quiet and fleeting, but real.