“You don’t have to talk about it, you know. Not until you’re ready.”
His words hang in the air, but I can’t bring myself to meet them. The truth is, the explosion is still rattling through me, like an aftershock I can’t escape. Every loud noise makes me flinch. Every sudden movement sends my nerves sparking like frayed wires.
And I hate it.
I hate the way it’s taken over, creeping into every quiet moment like an unwelcome guest. I hate that my home—the one place that was supposed to finally be mine—was ripped away from me in an instant.
“I’m sorry,” Ledger says suddenly, his voice low, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“For what?” I ask, blinking at him.
“For all of it,” he says, his gaze unwavering. “The house. The explosion. You losing . . . everything.”
His words hit something deep inside me, and for a second, I can’t breathe. Because as much as I want to tell him it’s fine, that I’ll be okay, the truth is, I’m not sure I will be.
“Gale,” Ledger says.
I flinch at the sound of his voice, hating the way it startles me, and force myself to turn around. “Sorry,” I mutter, crossing my arms tightly over my chest.
“Don’t apologize,” he says, his voice steady and calm, but there’s something in his eyes—something softer than I’m used to seeing. “You’ve been through a lot.”
“You too. You were there. Something could’ve happened to you,” I mumble, my voice shaky.
“But it didn’t.”
“Why are you so calm?” I swallow hard, the lump in my throat refusing to budge. “I just . . . I don’t understand why this happened.”
Ledger shifts closer to me, the sofa dipping slightly under his weight. He takes the mug from my trembling hands without a word and sets it gently on the coffee table. His fingers graze mine as he pulls my hands into his own, his touch warm, grounding. My hands are shaking, and I hate it—hate how fragile I feel.
“Why did it happen?” I repeat, my voice breaking on the question.
“Mal’s working on it,” he says quietly, his grip firm but not constricting, his thumbs brushing over my knuckles in slow, deliberate movements. “We’ll get answers, Gale. But right now, you’re safe. That’s what matters.”
Safe.
The word feels foreign, distant—like something from a language I no longer understand. Like a promise I can’t bring myself to believe anymore.
“I don’t feel safe,” I admit, my voice barely audible.
Ledger’s jaw tightens before he speaks. “I know it doesn’t feel like it now,” he pauses, his eyes locking onto mine with a quiet intensity, as if he’s willing me to believe him, “but I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. And I promise—nothing’s going to happen to you. Not while I’m here.”
He hesitates, like he’s searching for the right words, then adds, “You’re stronger than you think. You’ll get through this. I know you will.”
I shake my head, my chest tightening. “Why are you so calm?” I ask, staring at him as if his certainty can somehow answer all the questions swirling in my mind. “How can you be so sure?”
Something shifts in his eyes, a flicker of emotion from a place he keeps locked away, surfacing just long enough to make my pulse stutter.
“My dad,” he begins, his voice raw and uneven, like he’s dragging the words from a place he never visits. “He wasn’t a nice man. A functional alcoholic—that’s what they call it, I think. Or something like that. The label doesn’t matter. What matters is he was always angry. To him, we were nothing but a pack of idiots destined to fail. That’s all he ever saw in us.”
His jaw tightens, and his gaze drops for a moment before he continues. “And at night, when he was really drunk, he’d find ways to take it out on us. Sometimes, it felt like I was going to die. Other times . . .” His voice falters, a bitter edge slipping in. “I prayed he’d just kill me, just to get it over with.”
He exhales shakily, his fingers curling into fists before relaxing again. “Now, I work hard to be different. To not become him.”
The words hang between us, raw and unfiltered, heavy enough to make the air feel suffocating. I can’t breathe, can’t reconcile the man in front of me—the controlled, composed presence—with the boy he just described. It’s like staring at two completely different people, and the weight of his past presses into the room, demanding to be acknowledged.
“Ledger . . .” I whisper, my hands tightening around his without realizing it.
He meets my gaze head-on, unwavering. “I learned something during those nights,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “Even when everything’s falling apart—even when you’re certain it’ll break you—you can survive. You just have to hold on, no matter how impossible it feels, until the storm passes.”
