Page 68 of Stolen Harmony

The words came out quieter than I'd intended, but they carried the weight of two years' worth of self-loathing and desperation. Because maybe that was what I wanted, what I'd been driving toward with every bottle and every stranger. Maybe destruction was the only honest ending to this story.

Elias looked up at me then, and the pain in his eyes was almost unbearable.

“She wouldn't want that for you,” he said softly.

“She's not here to want anything.” The familiar anger rose in my chest, hot and comforting in its predictability. “She left, Elias. She died and left us both here to figure out how to live without her, and I'm telling you I don't know how.”

My voice cracked on the last word, and I felt the familiar sting of tears threatening. I blinked them back violently, refusing to break down in front of him, refusing to give him that satisfaction.

But something in my expression must have gotten through to him, because suddenly he was moving. Not toward the door like I'd expected, but toward me. He sat down on the couch beside me, not quite touching but close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body.

“You think I don't see you?” he said quietly.

I swallowed hard, my throat tight with unshed tears andwords I couldn't say. Because the truth was, I didn't think anyone saw me. Not really. I was good at being invisible, at slipping through life without leaving marks or making impressions. The strangers I brought home saw my body, wanted my body, but they didn't see me.

“I see you,” Elias continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “I see how hard you're fighting just to keep breathing. I see how much it costs you to get through each day. I see how much you loved her, how much losing her broke you.”

The words hit like blows, each one landing in a place I'd tried to keep protected. Because he did see me, didn't he? Saw past the armor and the attitude and the careful distance I kept from anything that might hurt.

“I see how beautiful you are,” he said, and his voice was rough with emotion. “How smart and talented and absolutely fucking gorgeous, even when you're destroying yourself. Especially then.”

“Elias.” His name came out like a prayer, like a plea for something I couldn't name.

“And I see how much you need someone to care about you. Really care, not just want your body for an hour.” He turned to face me fully, his eyes intense in the dim light. “But I can't be that person. Not like this. Not when you're hurting this much.”

“Why not?”

“Because you deserve better.” The words were simple, final. “You deserve someone who can love you without it being complicated.”

The tears I'd been fighting finally won, spilling down my cheeks in hot tracks that I wiped away angrily. “I don't want someone better. I want you.”

The confession hung between us, raw and honest and completely terrifying. I watched Elias's face change, saw the exact moment when his resolve started to crumble.

“Rowan,” he said, and my name sounded like a warning.

But instead of pulling away, instead of lecturing me about propriety and appropriate boundaries, he reached out. His arm settled around my shoulders, solid and warm and unshakeable. It wasn't tentative or questioning. It was an anchor, a lifeline, the kind of touch that saidI'm herewithout requiring anything in return.

I went stiff for a moment, every instinct telling me to pull away, to protect myself from the possibility of more rejection. But the fight drained out of me faster than I could hold onto it, and I found myself sagging against him, letting my head fall to his shoulder.

He smelled like cedar and rain and something uniquely him, warm and masculine and absolutely intoxicating. I could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, the solid presence of his body against mine, and for the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt safe.

“I'm so tired,” I whispered against his shirt, the words muffled but audible.

“I know.”

“I'm tired of pretending I'm okay. Tired of pretending I don't need anyone. Tired of being so fucking angry all the time.”

His hand moved to my hair, fingers gentle as they combed through the tangled strands. The touch was soothing, paternal almost, if I ignored the way it made heat pool low in my belly.

“You don't have to pretend with me,” he said quietly.

“What if I let go?” The question came out small, vulnerable. “What if I stop fighting and just... break?”

“Then I'll help you put the pieces back together.”

The promise was simple, devastating in its sincerity. I believed him, which was terrifying in itself. When was the last time I'd trusted anyone enough to believe their promises?

We sat there in the gathering darkness, his arm around me, my face pressed against his shoulder. Neither of us spoke, but the silence was different now. Softer, warmer, carrying the weight of things that couldn't be said but didn't need to be.