She finally breaks down. A sob racks through her body as she collapses into me, her hands clutching my wet shirt.
I hold her closer, pressing my lips to the top of her head. “It’s over, sunshine. He’s never gonna touch you again. Not as long as I’m breathing.”
Her tears keep falling, and I don’t mind. I let her cry until her breaths slow and become shallow again, until the shaking calms down.
I turn off the water, hearing the pipes’ faint squeak.
Grabbing a towel, I wrap it around her shoulders, tucking it close.
“You’re gonna be okay,” I murmur, brushing my thumb along her cheek. “You did the hardest part already. You left.”
She nods weakly, her eyes glimmering with tears.
“I don’t deserve you,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I say softly, “you do, baby. You always did.”
I help her with one of my old flannels. Grabbing a brush, I brush her hair, detangling a few knots. Once done, she stands there waiting while I quickly throw on some dry clothes.
Throwing on some sweats, I walk over to her and scoop her up without asking, carrying her down the hall.
She doesn’t protest as she buries her face in my chest, sobbing.
I gently lay her on the couch, pulling a blanket over her; her eyes are already half-lidded, exhaustion finally winning.
Sitting beside her, I gently brush my thumb along the edge of her jaw. “You sleep, baby. I’ll be right here.”
Her voice is barely a breath. “Don’t leave me.”
“Never,” I promise.
She drifts off, her hand still tangled in my shirt, and I remain there long after her breathing evens out, watching her chest rise and fall as the fear finally leaves her face.
The highlight reels of their new player are flashing on the screen, but I can’t hear the commentators.
All I see is her.
And all I can think is that I’d burn the whole damn world to keep anyone from hurting her again.
She finally fell asleep; her face soft, her lashes casting tiny shadows, one fist curled against the blanket. Every rise and fall of her chest is a small, perfect thing I want to protect with my whole body.
My house is absurdly quiet as I watch her sleep.
Heat simmers in my chest, rising mercilessly. It begins behind my ribs and blooms until my hands form fists without my willing them to.
My jaw tightens as I chew the inside of my cheek, and the taste of copper blooms on my tongue.
For a ridiculous, glorious second, that’s all I want, him on my floor, the two of us with no witnesses, and the rest settled with my fist in his face. I can already hear the hollow punch of it in my head.
I imagine how it would feel to let that anger land on someone else, to trade the ache in my chest for the sound of him caving under it.
It’s terrifyingly tempting.
I can feel my blood pulsing at my temples as my hands twitch at my sides.
Taking a deep breath, I look at Layla, at the tear tracks on her cheeks, at the small tremor in her sleeping fingers, and the fantasy grows uglier.
Violence only breeds more violence. It wouldn’t fix her; it would diminish her again, shrinking her room to the size of his fists. I refuse to let her become collateral damage in my rage.
