Page 19

AUTUMN

T he bath had helped.

At least, that’s what she told herself as she toweled off, fingers trembling slightly as she wrapped the fabric tighter around her chest. The heat had soothed her wounds, loosened the stiffness in her shoulders, dulled the ache in her ribs.

But the part of her that ached the most—quiet, invisible, and always running—remained untouched.

Dorian hadn’t said much. Just sat with her, patient as a stone, letting the silence stretch until it was something less sharp.

It should’ve been easy to walk away after that. To thank him, crack a joke, slip back into her room and pretend like nothing had shifted in the air between them.

But she couldn’t make herself move.

She stood in the doorway to the hall, hair damp and curling slightly at her collarbone, her oversized sweater swallowing her form again like a barrier.

The shadows in the house were soft tonight, muted by the lingering warmth of candlelight and the magic Dorian carried in his presence.

But her own shadows, the ones clinging just behind her ribcage, refused to loosen their grip.

She heard the rustle of fabric, the creak of the couch in the sitting room. Dorian, settling in.

Of course he wasn’t going to push. That wasn’t his style.

She moved before her brain caught up to her feet.

He looked up the moment she stepped in, concern flickering in his hazel eyes but he didn’t speak. Just waited. Gave her that quiet space she was learning he excelled at holding.

“I can’t—” Her voice cracked, and she flinched at how small it sounded. “I can’t go back to my room. Not tonight.”

He nodded once. “You don’t have to.”

She crossed the space slowly, bare feet whispering across the worn rug. Her body was sore in ways she wasn’t used to—tired and unraveling, her emotional walls spiderwebbed with the weight of everything she didn’t want to say. She wasn’t sure how to even ask.

Dorian stood and opened his arms and she walked straight into them.

The tears came without permission. No sobs, no dramatic breakdown—just quiet, hot streams sliding down her cheeks as he wrapped her in his arms and tucked her against his chest like she belonged there.

He didn’t shush her. Didn’t tell her it was okay. He just held her.

Autumn buried her face in his shirt, breathing in the scent of soap and something warm she couldn’t name. Her fingers clutched the fabric like it might disappear if she let go.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she whispered into the cotton.

He rested his cheek on top of her head. “You don’t need to apologize. You’re okay. You’re allowed to let yourself feel.”

She wanted to argue. Say that wasn’t it. But it was. Right now, in this moment, it was more than enough.

They moved together to the couch, slow and careful. He sat first, then guided her gently down beside him, his arm curled around her shoulders, her legs tucked underneath her like she was trying to take up less space than she occupied.

The storm outside had long passed, but the windows still glistened with lingering rain. The quiet crackle from the fireplace offered a steady rhythm, grounding her in the hush between her breaths.

Her voice came out in pieces.

“I left home when I was nineteen. Couldn’t stand the way they looked at me… like I was broken. My mom—she tried to understand. But she was scared of what I could see. What I couldn’t unsee.”

Dorian didn’t move. Just kept that steady weight beside her, anchoring.

“I used to talk to ghosts in my sleep,” she continued. “Said things I didn’t remember. My brother used to cry about it. Said I was haunted. That I’d bring something into the house that’d take us all.”

His fingers brushed gently over her arm.

“So I ran. Figured being alone would make it quieter. But it never got quiet.”

A long breath escaped her, like she was letting go of something ancient.

“I thought if I kept everything locked down, if I never let anyone close, it would be safer. Simpler. Less messy.” She laughed, bitter and soft. “Then you showed up with your dumb jokes and your warm hands and your stupid cinnamon rolls and made me think maybe—maybe—there was something better.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. Slow. No pressure.

“You don’t have to do anything, Autumn,” he murmured. “You don’t owe me a damn thing.”

“I know,” she said, voice cracking again. “But I want to.”

That admission felt like falling off a cliff. But he didn’t let her fall. He just pulled her in closer.

They stayed there, curled against each other like puzzle pieces half-figured out. No kisses. No whispered promises. Just breathing. Just being.

Autumn finally felt something near peace after what had seemed like forever.

She wasn’t fixed. Wasn’t ready. But she wasn’t alone and maybe that was the beginning of something real.