The room felt different after that.
Not louder. Not brighter. Just… softer. Like the air had stopped cutting so deeply.
I didn't pull my hand away.
That felt like a miracle all on its own.
Cyrus didn't move either. He let the silence breathe between us, let the moment exist without trying to fix it or rush it. Like he understood that sometimes healing wasn't about words. It was about staying.
Staying meant everything.
Outside, the night hum of the city slipped through the cracked window. Distant horns. Footsteps. Life going on while I tried to figure out how to exist in my own skin.
"I didn't think I'd ever say that out loud," I admitted quietly.
He tilted his head slightly. "What?"
"That I was scared." I let out a weak breath, almost a laugh. "I made it my whole personality to be untouchable."
"Yeah," he said, deadpan. "You're terrible at it."
I barked out a real laugh before I could stop it.
God. How did he do that?
My fingers shifted, curling a little tighter around his. I noticed it, too. He did, too. But neither of us mentioned it.
"I used to count seconds," I said before I could talk myself out of it. "Back then. In that place. I'd whisper numbers to myself so I wouldn't… disappear in there." I swallowed hard. "Sometimes I still do it. When it's too quiet. When my head gets too loud."
His thumb stilled for just a second. Not in shock. Not in pity.
In understanding.
"You don't have to count anymore," he said. Soft. Certain. "I'll stay right here with you."
That almost broke me.
I stood up quickly, moving toward the window under the excuse of wanting to look outside before he could see my eyes start to burn.
Behind me, I heard the soft sound of his chair shifting.
Then he was there.
Not touching. Not crowding. Just standing close enough that if I fell apart, I wouldn't fall alone.
"I hate this part," I murmured. "The after. When the memories stop screaming but the silence feels too big."
His voice came softer this time. "You're safe in the quiet now."
I turned to face him.
He was close. Too close for someone who was supposed to be dangerous. Too close for someone I wasn't supposed to trust. Too close.
But I didn't step back.
"There's something else," I said, fingers tightening around the glass. "Something I never tell anyone."
He didn't ask. Didn't push.
Just waited.
"I don't just remember the pain," I whispered. "Sometimes I remember wanting to disappear. Not die. Just… fade. Like I was never there at all."
The words tasted bitter.
He reached up slowly, carefully, like I might vanish if he moved too fast, and brushed a stray tear from the corner of my eye.
"You were always here," he said. "And I'm really damn glad you are."
Silence stretched between us again, but this time, it wasn't hollow.
It was full.
Full of breath. Full of warmth. Full of things, neither of us was brave enough to name.
Our hands found each other again naturally, like they'd always known the way.
And in that quiet kitchen, with the world muted and my past finally losing some of its sharpest edges, something shifted inside me.
Not healed. Not whole.
But… held.
The clock on the wall ticked too loud.
It shouldn't have mattered. It was a tiny, harmless sound. But after the storm inside my head, every little noise felt magnified. Like my senses hadn't caught up to the fact that I was safe now.
I sat on the couch again. I didn't remember walking back there.
The mug was gone. My hands were empty.
Cyrus sat by the side.
He was trying to be casual. I could see it in the way his shoulders stayed just a little too tight, the way he didn't look at me unless he had to. He was holding himself back.
For me.
That realisation sat heavy in my chest.
"You're hovering," I said quietly.
He huffed. "I am not hovering."
"You're hovering," I repeated, resting my chin in my palm.
He turned slightly, pointed at the counter. "I am existing… aggressively… in one place."
That pulled a weak laugh from me.
His eyes swept over my face like he was memorizing it. Like he was checking for cracks he might've missed.
"You look like relieved," he said.
"i am," I muttered.
He inched closer. Not fast. Not slow. Respecting invisible lines only we seemed to understand.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he admitted. "I'm terrible with this kind of thing."
"With… people?"
"With you," he corrected.
That hit deeper than I expected.
He leaned against the edge of the table, arms folded loosely. Not defensive. Not closed. Just… there.
"Back there," he said quietly, "when you told me you were scared… it scared me too."
I blinked. "Why?"
"Because I hate that someone taught you that the world only comes with teeth."
The room felt smaller.
Not in a suffocating way. In a closer, more intimate way.
I traced a small crack in the wooden table with my fingertip. "They weren't wrong," I said. "The world is sharp."
He tilted his head slightly. "Yeah. But it's not only that."
He hesitated, then reached out slowly, giving me time to pull away.
I didn't.
His fingers brushed my wrist. Just resting. A quiet question mark.
"Sometimes," he continued, "it's warm kitchens at night. Half-drunk coffee. People who sit with you when you can't breathe."
My throat tightened.
I turned my wrist slightly without thinking, letting my fingers ghost the side of his hand.
Neither of us looked away.
Neither of us breathed right.
"I used to think I was too broken for this," I whispered. "For… whatever this is."
He leaned in closer not touching his forehead to mine, but close enough that the space hummed.
"There's no such thing," he said.
My voice came out smaller. "You're going to hurt me."
It wasn't an accusation.
It was fear.
It was truth.
He didn't dodge it.
His thumb shifted slightly against my wrist. Warmer. Surging proof that he was real.
"Maybe," he said. "Not on purpose. Not the way they did."
That honesty nearly undid me.
Silence settled again. This one heavier. Fuller. More dangerous.
My fingers tightened faintly around his.
I didn't know when I grabbed him.
I only knew that when I looked down, I was holding his hand like it was a lifeline and he hadn't let go.
He didn't smile.
He didn't tease.
He just… stayed.
And God, that was louder than any promise.
"I hate that I feel calm with you," I murmured. "I spent years teaching myself not to."
He huffed softly. "Yeah, well. I'm very annoying that way."
That drew a real laugh from me.
The sound startled us both.
It had been so long.
The clock kept ticking.
The city kept breathing outside the window.
But insider that tiny room, time felt loose, unstructured… like the past couldn't quite reach us.
He squeezed my hand just once.
Not tight.
Not demanding.
Just there.
And in that moment, I understood something terrifying:
I didn't just trust him.
I wanted him.
And before I could understand what that meant my lips were on his.
I felt him go stiff for a moment taken aback but that was just a fient cause soon he pulled me towards him.
I could feel his hunger for me but that didn't scare me what did was I felt the same way.