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“Hi,” I say softly.
He snorts without much humor in it.
“Hi.”
I slide my palm up to his ankle and hold it there.
“I…” he says.
He licks his lips and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. Again. And again.
I move until I’m close enough that I can cover his hand with mine.
Slowly, so very slowly, like he’s not sure he should do it, he turns his hand over and traps my fingers in his palm. Lets them go. And traps them again.
Over.
And over.
And over again.
His chest rises and falls with uneven breaths, while he’s so clearly trying to keep himself together.
“Ryk,” I say helplessly because I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make this better for him. I don’t know how to fix this.
He swallows again.
And again.
And again.
His eyes move to his leg and away, like he can’t bear to look at it, but can’t keep his eyes off it either.
“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes still fixed on his thigh. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” The last fuck comes out on a hoarse snap before he jerks his upper body back, bangs his head against the wall, and squeezes his eyes shut as tears leak out of the corners.
His whole body shudders like it’s on the verge of breaking down, and maybe that’s what he needs right now. A safe place to break.
I cup his cheek and catch the tears in my palm before I slowly lean over him, my arms on either side of his body, my forehead against his. He grips my forearms, and he seems to curl against me. He pulls me lower until he can hide his face in my neck. His fingers clutch and twist the fabric of my shirt.
And he cries. Silent tears of fear and pain and desperation.
He clings to me, and I hold on to him. Keep him safe in this fucking storm.
He cries until my T-shirt is soaked with salt and water and he’s run out of tears.
I hold him. Stay in place and count his warm breaths against my neck.
I hold him.
Keep him safe.
And I’m not letting go.
Ever.
Eventually, he lifts his head enough to lean his forehead against mine again.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he says roughly.
