Chapter thirty-two
Ingrid
Iwoke slowly, the morning light too bright as I squinted against it. My eyelids felt swollen from the days I’d spent drowning in my own tears.
As the room came into focus, the reality of my surroundings settled in. I was in Tristian’s bed. The sheets beside me were pristine, pulled taut and cold. He hadn’t slept in here.
The guilt came back immediately.
I had invaded his space, hidden my trauma until I broke, and then practically forced him to witness my collapse. And it felt like I was a burden.
Now that the truth about my father had finally spilled out, I was caught in a tug-of-war between relief and regret. Had I broken us? Had I shoved too much onto Tristian just to keep him from walking away?
The terrifying truth was that I had become fused to him. I’d always known I could be needy, clingy, even… with the people I trusted, but this was different. It was visceral. The thought of his rejection left me paralyzed. I craved his reassurance like air, terrified of the moment his attention might flicker elsewhere. I was leaning on him so hard I feared I’d push him away any second.
And yet, I couldn’t let go. He was my only safety net. Even when he told me he was no good, I didn’t care. Because I needed him to stay. I needed him in a way that scared me.
I pushed the heavy duvet off my legs. I was wearing one of his hoodies—it smelled like him, a warm, heady musk I could drown in—and my boyshorts. I padded toward the door, the silence of the apartment ringing in my ears until I heard the faint rasp of a razor from the bathroom.
I found him there, staring into the mirror, meticulously shaping his beard. He’d only trimmed it slightly, thank God, keeping the rugged line of hair that defined his jaw. His eyes met mine in the reflection, but he didn’t say a word. He set the razor down, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the counter.
He lowered his head, his shoulders tense. I moved toward him, shyly wrapping my arms around his waist from behind and pressing my face into the broad expanse of his back. We stayed like that for a long time, the only sound our synchronized breathing.
“How did you sleep?” he finally asked.
I shrugged against him, my fingers tracing small, nervous patterns over his skin. “Fine...”
“We have to talk about last night, doll...”
“I know,” I whispered. I squeezed him tighter, as if I could anchor him there forever.
Tristian let out a long, ragged sigh and placed his hand over mine.
“I should have never made you feel pressured to tell me about your father.”
“T-Then how would you have known?”
“I would have known when you were ready. But… when I saw the makeup covering the bruises I just lost it… because I wasn’t there to protect you from him.”
“You were worried. It’s not your fault,” I whispered.
He turned in my arms, forcing me to let go of his waist. Before I could process the movement, he buried his face in the crook of my neck, pulling me flush against him. His grip was almost bruising, desperate.
“And it wasn’t your fault. None of it. I should’ve been the one protecting you instead of making it worse. I don’t deserve you. No one does.”
I wrapped my arms around his neck, inhaling him. The scent of his skin and his musk engulfed me.
“Sometimes...” he groaned, low, “I want to push you away. So you’ll be away from my fucked-up mind. But I can’t.”
I pulled him closer, the same desperation echoing in my own soul.
“Then don’t.”
A few hours later, I sat by the front door, watching Tristian pull on his jacket, check his phone as he moved through the apartment. He’d decided that I wasn’t going home again—that I was going to stay here, where I was safe. We’d head by shortly to grab some of my things, and then I was out of the house and away from my father for good.
The thought terrified me. The thought of walking back into that house, seeing my father, made my stomach churn, but I didn’t voice my fear. I was so accustomed to rolling over and doing whatever he commanded that part of me wanted to talk Tristian out of it. Go home, grovel, accept it, stay small. That was the version of me I knew how to be.
But another part of me, the part that had gotten louder since Tristian… knew I couldn’t go back. My father had terrorized me for too long. It was time to do what Camila had already done. It was time to get out.
