“When my parents died,” I start, my voice quiet, “I lived with the guilt for a long time. While I was grieving, I was dealing with survivor’s guilt. I mean, my entire family died and there I was, enjoying life with my favorite grandparents.”
His eyes flicker up to mine, something raw in his gaze. “Why not me?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why them and not me? They had children. I had . . . nothing.”
I swallow hard. I know that question too well.
He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’ve gone to therapy, talked through my suicidal ideation in depth. It’s something I had since I was young. The times I imagined how it’d be easier if I wasn’t around anymore. The times I begged for it to end so my father would stop beating me.”
A shiver runs down my spine.
I don’t think. I move.
I set my glass down and cross the space between us, lowering myself onto the couch beside him. He stiffens slightly, but he doesn’t pull away when I reach for his hand.
For a moment, he just stares at our joined fingers like he doesn’t know what to do with the contact. Then, slowly, his shoulders sag.
“I used to pray for it to be over,” he admits, his voice hoarse. “I remember lying in bed as a kid, staring at the ceiling, thinking if I just disappeared, maybe this would stop.”
My fingers tighten around his.
I know that feeling too.
“When I was fourteen, after the accident . . . I wanted to die.” The words fall out before I can stop them, but I don’t try to take them back. “The guilt was unbearable. I felt like I had no right to still be here when they weren’t.”
Hopper nods, like he understands. Maybe because he does.
“I get that,” he murmurs.
I turn my body toward him fully, my knee brushing his. “I spent years running. I thought if I kept moving, if I never stopped long enough to let anything catch up to me, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much.”
“And now?” he asks, watching me carefully.
I scoff. “I tried to stop, to settle down, and those men ran me out of town. It feels like people like me just can’t get a break. They can’t get love. And by now, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”
His lips twitch slightly. “Same, but I have Maddie and that’s what keeps me going.”
We sit in silence, his hand still in mine.
I don’t know how long we stay like that, but it’s comfortable in a way I didn’t expect. Like neither of us has to fill the silence.
He turns his hand slightly, his thumb grazing my palm, and a small shiver runs up my arm. I don’t know if it’s the heat of the fire or the warmth of his touch, but suddenly, the room feels smaller.
“You’re good at this,” he says after a long moment.
I arch an eyebrow. “At what?”
He shrugs. “Not making me feel like I should be ashamed of it.”
I give him a soft smile. “You shouldn’t be.”
His gaze lingers on me, something unreadable in his expression.
And just like that, the air shifts.
I see it in the way his eyes drop briefly to my mouth, the way his hand flexes slightly in mine like he’s thinking about something he shouldn’t be thinking about.
And I feel it too.
It would be easy—too easy—to close the space between us. To lean in. To let this turn into something neither one of us is ready for.
