The question catches me off guard, but I nod without hesitation. His arms encircle me, strong and secure, and I bury my face in his chest. For the first time in what feels like forever, I'm cocooned in safety, protected from the threats beyond this bedroom. My tears soak into his shirt as I finally let go, allowing myself to be vulnerable in this sanctuary of his embrace. The closeness is overwhelming yet soothing—both a balm and a spark that ignites something deeper, more complicated. I surrender to it, letting my guard fall. His silence speaks volumes, his presence more comforting than any words could be.

“They're not going to do this to you again," he whispers into my hair, his voice steady with conviction.

I want to believe him, to let his promise shield me from further pain. But hope feels like a precipice when you're already falling apart—beautiful, terrifying, and impossibly far away.

27. Late Night Drives

CHAPTER 27

LATE NIGHT DRIVES

NATE

The second I see Nora push through the front door, every instinct in me goes on high alert. She's always been good at building walls, locking away her pain behind carefully constructed barriers, but I see right through them—I always have. Today, her panic is a neon sign, bleeding through her usual composed facade. Her eyes are wide, haunted, her breathing uneven and sharp. Jake claims she's just feeling sick, but that's bullshit. There's something deeper written in the tremor of her hands, the way her eyes won't settle.

I'm up the stairs after her before I can process the decision to move. Her closed door is a clear message to stay away, but I've never been good at following rules when it comes to her. I tap on the door, and her voice comes through, strained and distant, telling me to leave.

I don't.

Instead, I push the door open to find her pacing, arms wrapped around herself like she's holding her pieces together. The sight of her like this—vulnerable and scared—hits me like a physical blow. The room feels charged with her anxiety, the air thick with it.

"Nora," I start, my voice coming out soft.

She's lost in her head, trapped in whatever nightmare is playing behind those green eyes. Her shoulders shake with each ragged breath, and it kills me to see her trying to handle this alone. I step closer, careful to give her space. She attempts to brush it off, claiming exhaustion from a long day, but the lie sits heavy between us. Someone's hurt her—the thought ignites something primal and protective in my chest—and I'm determined to find out who.

Right now though, what she needs isn't my rage. She needs the comfort we've always found in each other, the same safety we shared as kids.