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God. I could cry.

And then I do.

Ugly, silent sobs that shake my shoulders like an earthquake’s just moved in under my skin. Like my ribs are trying to splinter and stab their way out of me from the inside. It’s pathetic, really, the way my face crumples and my breath hiccups—like I’ve forgotten how to hold myself together. Like I ever knew how in the first place.

Kingston doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t make a joke. Doesn’t recoil from my wreckage.

He just pulls me into him like he’s been waiting to. Like I’m not a burden but a puzzle piece he’s been missing. His arms fold around me, solid and strong and terrifyingly safe, and the second my cheek presses against his hoodie, I shatter.

His heartbeat drums beneath my ear—steady, unbothered. Meanwhile, mine is a damn marching band in a hurricane.

He didn’t ask questions.

And I know.

He knows.

Dad must’ve told him. That I needed to get out. That I needed space. That I’m pregnant.

But did he tell him everything?

I squeeze my eyes shut, harder than I should, willing myself to believe my father didn’t air out my entire tragedy like dirty laundry on a community clothesline. That he didn’t unload my trauma like it was small talk over scotch.

Kingston’s hand comes up and cups the back of my head, thumb stroking the crown of my hair in slow, rhythmic circles, like he’s drawing constellations only I can see. He’s not trying to fix me. Just… letting me fall apart in his arms.

And maybe that’s worse.

Because I’m not used to being held without expectation. I’m used to hands that want something. Words that slice instead of soothe.

But he just holds me.

And God, it breaks me.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper eventually, voice rough as gravel. “I didn’t mean to⁠—”

“To what?” His voice is a low rumble, heat and concern and something I don’t want to name. “Feel something?”

My throat tightens. “Fall apart.”

He exhales, the sound soft and sharp all at once. “Mya…” My name sounds different in his mouth. Less like a label. More like a lifeline. “You don’t have to apologize for breaking when the world’s already been trying to do it for you.”

I press my forehead to his chest, breathing him in—cedar and citrus and something that smells a hell of a lot like home.

“What did he tell you?” I ask, because I have to. Because I can’t sit in this suspended space of not-knowing.

Kingston pauses, the way people do when they’re weighing mercy against honesty.

“Only that you needed somewhere to go. That you were overwhelmed. That you—” He clears his throat. “That you’re pregnant.”

I wince. The word still slices through me like broken glass, even when it’s spoken gently.

Nothing else? No mention of the chaos I crawled out of? The betrayal? The bruises no one can see?

Good. God, I hope not.

“I didn’t ask for details,” he adds, like he can feel my fear. “Figured if you wanted me to know, you’d tell me.”

That alone nearly makes me cry all over again.