Dusk arrived like a hesitant guest light casting quiet shadows across the living room, the sky outside a muted lavender.
I sat curled on the edge of Lance's couch, knees drawn close, wrapping an arm around them while the other hand rested on my lap. Every breath felt fragile.
There was a weight in my chest that i hadn't noticed before.
Not just grief, or exhaustion, it felt like disappointment. At myself. At people i thought i knew. At the world.
I didn't close my eyes. I couldn't. I didn't dare, because i knew falling asleep meant letting my guard down again and something about this silence felt dangerous.
I heard his footsteps approach, cautious, careful. "Aurora?" he asked softly.
I didn't answer.
Instead, he came to sit beside me, close but not touching. Just near, like he wanted to give me space, but only just.
After a long pause, I realized he had leaned in and found me. His arms wrapped around my shoulders, pulling me gently into his chest.
I startled.
I hadn't expected it.
For a heartbeat i still thought, He's just being kind. Just letting me cry it out.
But then i felt the rhythmic thump of his heart against my temple and the warmth of his chest rising and falling and everything wavered inside me.
I slid forward.
Closer.
His arms tightened, but just enough.
Not smothering. Protective.
Tears came, deep, soul-shaking sobs i thought i had starved.
I wasn't sure how i started crying; maybe i'd been holding all this grief in, waiting for permission to break.
He didn't pull away. Didn't flinch. Let me lean into him. Kept my hair out of my face, fingers brushing my cheek, voice low against my hair.
"Let it out," he murmured.
I pressed my face into his chest.
His fingers traced smooth circles on my back.
I cried until my lungs burned and my vision cleared.
I cried until i remembered who died. I cried until betrayal felt real. Until relief felt like surrender.
At some point, he loosened one arm and lifted my head to look at me.
I blinked, leak-broken eyes stunned. His gaze was quiet, soft but intense. Like he was scanning for broken pieces of me he could never fix completely.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
"For what?" he asked gently.
"For... everything." Because in that moment i was so sorry to feel so broken; sorry to depend on him; sorry for trusting a world that tricked me; sorry for needing kindness from a man i barely knew, but who held me like i mattered.
He tucked a loose strand behind my ear.
"You're allowed to feel fragile," he said. "You've been through hell."
I studied his profile. The way his jaw relaxed as he exhaled. The slight hollowness by his cheek. The honest lines around his eyes. I realized then, this wasn't a pity embrace. He wasn't protecting me from me, he was admitting i mattered to him.
I leaned forward and rested my forehead against his. His breath whispered against my lips. "I don't deserve this," I said.
He tilted his head, fingers against my cheek. "Maybe we're both learning to accept good things."
His voice cracked slightly, the first time i'd heard vulnerability in his tone.
I nodded, tears brimming again.
But this time, not from fear.
From relief that someone genuine could still find me in all this darkness.
We sat like that long into the evening.
I fell asleep eventually, pressed into him. This time i didn't wake up alone.
I didn't have to.
I awoke to faint sunlight creeping through the curtains. He was still there. One arm across my waist, the other arm propped under his head. His eyes were closed. Lips parted in gentle rest.
I didn't move. I just watched him sleep, soft and unguarded.
And for a moment, I let myself believe that someone truly cared.
Later, I drifted back to consciousness to find him in the kitchen. The smell of coffee teased at my memory.
He moved slowly, gentle. Sunlight softened the sharp angles of his face. He turned when i walked in. "Morning," he said softly.
I nodded, hungry but mostly heavy.
He poured me tea, set out toast and soft scrambled eggs.
"Eat," he encouraged, eyes steady.
I sipped. The quiet warmth felt kind safe and real.
When we left for the precinct, I clutched my freshly written statement like a lifeline.
I whispered my trembling memories, even the ones i barely dared to reach for: the man who handed to Selena and handed that third drink, the foul sweet odor, dizziness like slow-motion panic, the sudden blackout.
The lips of the investigator touched the pen, nodding. Notes jotted urgently.
Behind me, Lance stood firm. Closed file. Calm presence.
I felt him there, literally, and something more intangible but crucial.
Afterward, in the hallway, I closed my eyes and exhaled.
He rested a hand on my shoulder. Gentle weight, grounding.
That evening, in my room, I sat and traced folds in the sheets.
He knocked and entered, closing the door behind him.
I stared.
He handed me a chilled bottle of water still, the silence held more than words.
"I—thank you," I whispered. "For today."
He offered a faint, reassuring smile. "I'll always repeat: I already believe you."
Unbidden, I put my hands on his cheeks and pulled him closer.
I kissed him softly.
A whisper of lips.
A quiet declaration: I trust you.
He stayed exactly still. Let me.
When i pulled away, his eyes glowed faintly. "I care about you," he said. Just below his breath.
My heart thudded not with fear, but a slow courageous beat, calling it something else.
Later that night, we lay side by side in the guest room.
My legs tangled with his, breathing in sync.
His arm swept over my waist, a soft anchor.
I drifted off with one desperate prayer in my heart: May this last not because i'm safe, but because i'm cared for.
And in the dim, quiet dark, I believed it. I really did.