Page 27

Twenty-Seven

I didn’t remember falling asleep.

But I remembered the kitchen.

Even though I’d spent years pretending I didn’t.

Not the first time he hit me. Not the last. Not even the worst.

No—this one. This one came with silence. With breath that refused to leave my lungs. With hands that left no visible bruises, just… fear.

He wasn’t yelling this time.

That’s what made it worse.

He was calm.

Cruel.

Methodical.

“Say you’re sorry,” Elliot whispered, pressing me against the refrigerator door, the chill biting through my shirt.

I couldn’t speak. My lips felt sewn shut.

“Say it.”

His hand wrapped around my throat—not squeezing, not quite—just reminding me he could.

“I said,” he murmured, lips brushing my ear, “say. It.”

I whimpered. Tried. Failed.

He pulled back to look at me.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, like it was a kindness. Like it was my fault I was about to be hurt.

And then?—

Everything went still.

Again.

But this time… something cracked .

Not outside me. Inside.

The air changed. The refrigerator behind me vanished. The kitchen walls dissolved like smoke peeling off the bones of a memory I never wanted to keep.

I dropped to the floor, gasping, coughing—but the tile was gone.

So was he.

And in the space left behind…

Moon.

He didn’t appear.

He stepped in.

Like the nightmare belonged to him now.

His silver eyes burned—not with anger, but grief.

“I didn’t know,” he said softly. “This… this wasn’t the memory I saw.”

I couldn’t breathe.

He looked around, taking in the space—the invisible walls, the leftover fear, the way I still curled in on myself even after Elliot was gone.

Moon crouched. Slowly. Carefully. As if I were glass about to shatter. A joke. I’d already shattered.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said.

I stared. “This isn’t real.”

“No,” he agreed. “But it’s happening.”

That didn’t help.

And then he said it?—

“I thought I’d seen the worst of it,” he murmured. “I was wrong. I’m sorry… I’m sorry I waited. I’m sorry I didn’t tear further into your mind sooner.”

“You didn’t have the right,” I whispered, voice barely there.

He nodded. “I know.”

“But I’m glad you did.”

His expression shifted.

“I didn’t think you’d say that,” he admitted.

“I didn’t think I would either,” I said.

The silence between us stretched—not empty, but full. Of the things I’d never said out loud. Of the ache in his voice. Of the way his fingers hovered over my knee like he didn’t know if he deserved to touch me yet.

“This is when I knew you were ours. Not the first memory. Not the dolls. Not the night you cried in your sleep.”

He reached out, fingertips brushing the place Elliot’s breath had stained.

“It was the way you endured this.”

I wanted to cry. I didn’t.

“Not because you should have had to,” he added quickly. “But because you did. And I swore to myself—if you let us stay, I would make sure no one ever got close enough to touch you again.”

His hand fully cupped my cheek now, thumb ghosting over the corner of my mouth.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “Not in this hospital. Not in this dream.”

“Then where should I be?”

“With us,” he said. “Safe. Worshipped. Free.”

I blinked.

“You say that like it’s easy.”

“It isn’t.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But it’s right. ”

He leaned in, forehead touching mine. The contact was light—barely there—but it made my breath catch. Like my body didn’t know whether to flinch or melt.

“I won’t leave you in the dark again. Not even the parts of you you’ve buried.”

A pause.

Then:

“May I hold you?”

I nodded.

And in that dream—where fear had once made a home of me—Moon held me like I was his anchor to something softer.

Like he was the one who needed saving.

And maybe… maybe he did.

I didn’t know what was real.

Not the dream. Not him. Not even me.

My chest was tight like I couldn’t find the surface anymore, like I’d fallen asleep inside a memory I never gave permission to remember.

Moon was still holding me. His hand was on my neck. His voice in my head.

I should’ve been scared.

I was.

But I wasn’t scared of him.

I was scared that I didn’t want him to let go.

“You’re unraveling,” he said again, thumb brushing gently beneath my jaw. “And I’m sorry for that.”

I blinked hard. “You say that like you didn’t cause it.”

“I say that like I’ve been there, ” he corrected. “And I know how to make it stop.”

I wanted to believe him.

I wanted to collapse in his arms and pretend I hadn’t just relived the worst night of my life.

But part of me—maybe the last sane part—clung to the idea that none of this was real. That he was just another hallucination. Another consequence of stress and trauma and?—

“Shhh,” he whispered.

I hadn’t made a sound.

But he felt it. I don’t know how , but he did.

“You’ve carried enough of the bad ones,” he said gently, voice like frost against silk. “Let me give you something better.”

I blinked. “You’re going to… what? Replace my dream?”

His smile was faint. “Not replace. Rewrite.”

“Why?”

“Because no one ever gave you peace,” he said. “And I want to be the first.”

He pressed his forehead to mine.

“Close your eyes, Dawn.”

I did.

Because I didn’t have the strength not to.

His fingers drifted to my temple.

And then?—

The nightmare broke like glass.

Not shattered— released.

Like it had been holding its breath the whole time and finally let go.

The floor beneath me vanished, but I didn’t fall. The cold was gone. So was the taste of blood behind my teeth.

I opened my eyes?—

And the world had changed.

Soft grass cradled my body like a bed made just for me. Not itchy. Not damp. Cool, thick blades that bent beneath my weight and held me, like hands with no demands. The air smelled like something I barely remembered from childhood—vanilla and clover and warmth. Like a memory from someone else's life. The breeze didn’t just move. It kissed.

Above me stretched a sky that couldn’t exist.

Deep violet, streaked with silver, the stars moved . Not twinkled— drifted , like they were floating through a sea I was now part of. The horizon pulsed with color, soft oranges and deep blues melting together like oil and light.

There was no sun.

But everything glowed.

Even the shadows.

I sat up slowly, afraid to breathe too loud in case I woke myself up.

But I didn’t.

This wasn’t a place meant to break.

This was a place meant to hold .

And I had no idea how long I’d been aching for it.

A voice, soft and low, brushed the air beside me like silk across skin.

“Is this better?”

I turned.

He was there.

Not looming. Not cold. Just present .

Moon sat several feet away in the grass, one leg tucked beneath the other, arms stretched behind him like he had no reason to move. He didn’t reach for me. Didn’t close the distance. He let me have this.

His silver skin shimmered beneath the dreamlight, fractured porcelain glowing like he was built from stardust. The cracks didn’t look like damage anymore. They looked like constellations.

He was beautiful.

But not in a way that asked to be worshiped.

In a way that asked, Are you breathing easier now?

I nodded, mouth too tight to speak.

He smiled—small, reverent. Like he was the one in awe.

“I won’t take this from you,” he said. “This dream is yours.”

And it was.

Not a trick. Not a prison. Just… peace.

For the first time in so long I couldn’t count, I felt the tight coil in my chest loosen. My shoulders unhooked from my ears. My jaw unclenched. My hands didn’t shake.

I didn’t just feel better.

I felt free.

I lay back in the grass, the blades brushing against my arms like they were trying to memorize me.

The stars above swirled.

The air hummed.

Moon didn’t move closer. Didn’t intrude. He just watched. Quiet. Steady. His eyes soft with something that looked dangerously like love—but heavier. Older. Like he’d been waiting a long time to give this moment to someone who would need it this much.

The silence between us wasn’t hollow.

It was whole.

A silence that wrapped around me like a lullaby. A promise without words.

I turned my face toward him. “Why?”

His voice was a whisper. “Because you deserve one night where you’re not surviving.”

A sob caught in my throat. I swallowed it. Let the grass catch it instead.

The sky pulsed softly. A meteor drifted by like a lazy streak of magic.

And as my eyes grew heavy again—this time not from exhaustion, but rest —I felt it. A pulse at my ankle. A cool weight.

Moon’s fingers.

He wasn’t holding me.

He was anchoring me.

“You’re safe,” he said. “And when you wake… we’ll be here.”

His voice faded as I drifted.

But the feeling stayed.

Warm.

Real.

And—for the first time since all of this began—I slept without fear.