Page 65 of Crash

His words anchored me, giving me something to focus on besides the chaos in my head. In. And out. The gentle pressure of his palm matched my breathing rhythm, the vise around my chest slowly loosening.

When my lungs finally remembered how to work properly, I attempted to stand, to escape this moment of weakness, but Blake’s arms caught me as I swayed. The concern in his expression made me feel absurdly delicate, less like an able-bodied adult and more like a baby giraffe standing for the first time.

I couldn’t meet his stare though. Couldn’t bear to see pity or horror in those eyes that had always looked at me like I was unbreakable.

“I didn’t know what I was saying,” I claimed, looking at the ground. “I was drugged.”

“You don’t need to hide from me.” His voice carried the weight of old wounds, and his finger tilted my chin up until I met his eyes. “Not from me, Tess.”

“Well … it was a long time ago.” The words felt hollow, rehearsed from years of telling them to myself.

“Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“I can feel you pulling away. Don’t shut me out.”

I tried to turn away again, but his hold on my arms was sure.

“Did you look at me differently after you saw my scars?” His question held an edge of challenge.

“That was different.”

“Was it?” His thumb brushed my cheek. “You said you saw me as a warrior. It wasn’t until I saw your scar that I finally understood what you meant.”

Something in his voice made me look up. The understanding in his eyes—not pity, not horror, just pure recognition—melted the ice that had formed around my chest. The steam wrapped around us like a cocoon, and I felt the fortress I’d built start to crack.

“You see me as a warrior?” It was so anti-feminine, caring this much what a man thought of me. But this wasn’t just a man. This was Blake. My Blake.

“More than you can imagine.”

Do not cry. You’ve done so much crying that you could seriously charge for water.

Blake dragged his knuckles down my jaw, looking heartbreakingly pained.

“I’ve been going through every memory,” he said, “trying to pinpoint when this happened to you. Then, today, it hit me. That weekend Ryker and I were home from college for your dad’s birthday. You came in late, went straight to your room. Ryker thought it was just some boyfriend-breakup drama, but …” He set his jaw tight. “Something felt wrong. After Ryker fell asleep, I went to your door.”

“I told you to go away.” The memory surfaced, sharp and clear.

“But I could hear you crying. It was … brutal to hear your pain. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I just …” His voice roughened. “I sat outside your door. All night. Just in case you needed me.”

The sob that escaped my throat surprised us both. I had no idea that when my palm had been pressed against that door, wishing he was there, he actually was. I remember the confusing thoughts and feelings that first night and how I wanted to tell him what happened. Him, only him. Wanted his arms wrapped around me, my face buried in his chest as he assured me everything would be okay. And I remember how I’d wanted to tell him that I went down swinging.

“I fought back,” I said, the words tumbling out. “When he got interrupted, I grabbed a bottle. I got cut, but I got away, and later …” My voice cracked. “Later, I remember thinking you’d be proud of me for fighting back.” I smiled. “Isn’t that pathetic? That I wanted you to be proud of me for that?”

Blake’s chest rose sharply. “I am proud of you. And I wish you’d let me in that night.”

“I almost did.” The confession felt like letting go of something heavy I’d carried for years. “I wanted so badly to just … feel enveloped by your warmth.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed, like it pained him to hear that I’d been suffering. “Why didn’t you?”

“I was overwhelmed, processing it all. And I couldn’t let Ryker find out, so I just …” I swallowed hard. “I pressed my hand against the door, wishing …”

“Iwasthere, Tess.” His voice was rough. “Right there on the other side. The whole night.”

It was strange how history, in that moment, actually rewrote itself. Thinking about the darkest night of my life, I’d always remembered how alone I felt. Scared. Violated. But knowingnow that Blake had been there with me, a mere three inches from my palm, it changed something about that night. It lessened its darkness somehow.

I’d always known I could trust Blake—him, with his own scars, his own battles—to understand in a way no one else ever would.