I didn’t speak the rest of the ride home. Couldn’t. My pulse didn’t settle. My throat felt bruised from holding everything in.
By the time we pulled into the driveway, something inside me snapped loose. He barely had the car in park before I broke apart, tears spilling in a hot and humiliating torrent before I could stop them. My chest hitched, breath uneven, my hands fisted in my jeans.
“Hey—hey—Eli.”
He reached for me instantly, cupping the back of my head, pulling me into his chest.
I welcomed his embrace, shaking, swallowing air that didn't seem to help.
“I’m sorry,” I gasped. “I don’t know why—I don’t—I didn’t mean to?—”
“Don’t apologize,” he murmured, arms wrapping around me tighter. “Don’t you dare apologize for this.”
His shirt dampened with my tears. His heartbeat thundered under my cheek. I clung to him, hating how small I felt but unable to let go. Sobs hit me so hard they felt physical, tearing something loose deep inside. My hands came up tomy face on instinct, trying to hide it, but the shaking betrayed me.
“Eli?” Adrian’s voice went soft-sharp, the tone he used in triage when something was wrong, but he needed the patient to stay with him.
I couldn’t look at him. Adrian unbuckled my seatbelt for me. He shifted closer and committed to the hug for the long-term, his breath warm against my temple.
I broke harder. Not because of the honk. Not because of the jolt. Not even because of the cars.
But because some deep, terrified part of me realized I didn’t want to be brave anymore. Not today. Not in front of him. And Adrian just held me while I fell apart.
I didn’t know how long I cried there in the car.
Long enough for my breath to stutter.
Long enough for my heartbeat to settle.
Long enough for the unwelcome hand of shame to creep up my spine.
“I’m sorry,” I rasped when the tears finally thinned. It sounded pathetic, scraped raw. “I don’t know why I—I didn’t mean to fall apart like that.”
Adrian didn’t even hesitate. “Don’t apologize.” His voice was soft but fierce.
He pulled me close, and I leaned into him, desperate for his touch.
“Let’s get you inside.”
When I finally calmed down enough to breathe, he gently guided me out of the car and into the house on wobbly legs that felt made of someone else’s bones.
Inside, he steered me to the couch and sat beside me, not too close at first. I hated that I was grateful for the space. My hands still shook in my lap. I tried to flatten them. Tried to pull myself back together. But Adrian watched me with devastating, unguarded tenderness.
“Talk to me,” he urged softly.
“I don’t… I don’t know what happened.” My voice cracked again, humiliatingly thin. “The honk, I guess. The brake. It was stupid.”
“It wasn’t stupid,” he said immediately, leaning in. He scooted closer, hip to hip. “You had a trauma response. Your body remembered something terrible. That doesn’t make you weak.”
I exhaled shakily. “It’s been over two months. I should be past this.”
He reached out slowly, giving me every chance to recoil—and placed his hand over mine. “You don’t get past something like that,” he said. “You move through it. And that doesn’t happen on a schedule, no matter how many charts I print out about safety ratings.”
A startled laugh escaped me, wet and broken. He smiled slightly, relieved, and traced my knuckles. I stared at his hand holding mine. Broad. Steady. Familiar.
My throat tightened, but not with tears this time.
“Adrian…” I whispered, unsure where the word was going until it left me.
