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“He said he would find it without me,” I said.
He sat with that for a second. Then, voice soft, “I’m sorry about your father, Mills.”
Hearing those words seemed to crack open a dam inside that I’d desperately been trying to keep intact.
“Hey,” Silvano said, sounding alarmed as the first sob finally escaped me. “Alright,” he said, arms reaching for me, pulling me so my legs draped over his, holding me against his chest.
I appreciated that he didn’t try to tell me it was alright. Because he knew that wasn’t true.
It wasn’t alright.
My father was dead.
I felt the burden of guilt for that, whether that was realistic or not.
It might be okay someday. I might come to that point. But that was not today, and it felt good to have someone there who understood that I just needed to be not okay for a while.
I’d cried a lot over my father. In private moments when Silvano couldn’t see or hear. But this felt like the “big cry” I’d really been needing to do.
By the time I was done, Silvano’s shirt was wet, my chest and belly hurt from the sobs, and my face felt raw from the tears.
Silvano seemed unbothered as he snatched some of the napkins on the table from the last take-away meal, handing them to me wordlessly.
“You handled that well,” I said after blowing my nose, and finally pulling away from him.
To that, he exhaled hard.
“Had a mom who got the shit beat out of her all the time,” he admitted. “Not unfamiliar with crying.”
My heart, already obliterated, somehow still managed to ache for the little boy he’d been. Beaten and abused himself, but still being strong enough to comfort his hurt and upset mom.
“Better to get it out, right?” he asked, watching me.
“Yeah,” I admitted, feeling a little embarrassed about how long and hard I’d cried.
“Maybe the nightmares will ease up now,” he said, reaching for me, and pulling me onto his lap again.
But he didn’t stop there.
His arms tightened, then he got to his feet, holding me to his chest.
“What are you doing?” I asked, even as I leaned my cheek against his wet shirt.
“You’re sleeping upstairs with me,” he told me.
“Oh,” I said, feeling a warm sensation move across my chest. “Okay then.”
Silvano effortlessly climbed those dangerous steps to the loft, even with his arms full of me.
I glanced back, seeing Storm happily moving into my spot on the couch, his head on my pillow.
Silvano lowered me down onto the side of the bed furthest from the steps, taking a second to pull the covers up over me, then moving around the bed.
He paused on his side to reach up and remove his wet t-shirt.
Despite the nightmare, the memories, and the fog of grief, I felt a ping of desire at seeing him mostly bare to me again.
But then he was sliding into the bed and pulling up the covers.
