Page 68 of Yours on the Canvas

“I’ve got you, dove,” I whisper into his hair. “You’re going to be okay, baby.”

His arms lift, fingers wrapping around my forearm, gripping tight as if I’m the only solid thing in the room. He turns in my hold, pressing his face to my chest, breath hitching, and his voice cracked from everything he’s already spilled over the last few days.

I hold him there, steady and unmoving, letting him cling to me, letting him fall apart, and silently letting him know that he doesn’t have to do any of this alone.

“I didn’t think they would find me.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t think he’d ever see me again.”

“I know.”

He pulls in a deep breath, a jagged, broken sound that echos straight into the deepest parts of me. I hold him tighter, feeling every tremor of his body, and hear every fractured inhale.

I knew the instant I met Jack that he was wrecked, not ruined or broken, but wrecked in that way a masterpiece is wrecked over time. Not broken, but marked by life, scarred and unforgettable by what he’s survived. Pain carved him, survival shaped him and underneath it all, beneath the scars and the fear I see a wild, beating thing inside him that still wants to fly. I would burn kingdoms, gods, and every man who ever laid a hand on him just to give him the sky.

He’s my dove; white, fragile, furious, just waiting to be released, waiting to fly free.

His head shifts against my chest, and I feel his breath hitch, a fresh sob tearing loose from his throat. “I don’t want to go back.”

My chest tightens so sharply it hurts. “You’re not going back, Jack. Not while I’m breathing.”

His hands slide up my chest, clutching my shirt. He looks at me, his eye red, swollen, terrified when he looks at me, and I swear I feel the fear like it’s my own.

“Silas,” he whispers. “He called me Jackie.”

“I heard, Baby.”

“I hate that name.”

“I know, dove.”

His face crumples, and I cup his jaw, my thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. I feel his lips tremble against the pad of my thumb, “He only used it when he wanted something. When I was in the ring. Training. It sits alongside pain. I feel it like a physical punch.”

My jaw clenches. “He’s never getting anything from you again.”

Jack swallows hard, then leans forward, pressing his face into my neck. His breath warms my skin, uneven and shaky, and his fingers slide up, threading through my hair.

“Can I stay tonight? Can you stay with me?” he asks quietly. “Just tonight.”

“Oh, my boy.” My hand moves up his spine, slow and steady. “Absolutely, I’m not going anywhere.”

He nods, and I feel the way his whole body sags against mine, exhaustion pulling him down like gravity finally caught him. It’s still early afternoon, but I can see he’s done. I can see my boy needs his bed.

“Hop up.” I say gently, shifting my grip so I can lift him with my good arm.

He doesn’t argue or even hesitate, and I huff a laugh when he literally climbs up my body. He leans into me giving me all his weight, trusting me to carry him.

He wraps his arms around my neck, and I slide an arm under his legs as they wrap around my waist. He curls in against my chest, small in a way he’ll never admit, trembling in a way he will never let anyone see, except me.

Carrying him to the bedroom, he doesn’t let go. When I set him on the bed, he reaches for me instantly, fingers curling around my wrist tightly.

His voice is barely audible. “Don’t leave.”

I kneel in front of him, cup his cheek, and guide his face toward mine.

His eyes are glassy, lost.