I was back there again.
Eric's apartment—dark, cramped, suffocating.
I stood by the window, hands shaking as I tried to open it. But it wouldn't budge. Behind me, the floorboards creaked.
"You're always trying to run," his voice slithered through the air, low and close.
I turned—and he was there. Eyes wild. Smile wrong.
"I told you, Winter. You don't get to leave me."
He moved toward me, his boots scuffing against the wooden floor—a sound that amplified the heavy air around us. I backed up, but the wall met my spine. The scent of stale bourbon clung to him, familiar and nauseating, rendering my escape all the more impossible. His hand gripped my arm, tight, bruising, exactly like that night.
I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out.
His face hovered inches from mine. "You're mine. You promised."
I tried to shove him away, but I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. I was drowning in him all over again.
Then—
A slam. A flicker of red in the dark. And suddenly he was gone.
I was alone.
But not safe.
I woke up in a cold sweat, my heart hammering against my ribs, the darkness around me almost tangible. The familiar scent of lavender from the candle on my nightstand began to permeate the air, offering a calming contrast to the shadows of my dream. My jaw ached, clenched tight as if holding back words or screams from the nightmare I had just escaped. I didn't want to be alone right now. I don't think I should be alone right now.
The silence in my room was starting to press in on me, thick and heavy, like it knew everything I was too scared to say out loud. Yet the warmth of my blankets, soft against my skin, stood as a subtle reminder that I was not in Eric's apartment anymore. My heart still hadn't slowed down, and the ache in my arm from where Eric had grabbed me throbbed like a warning.
I glance at my phone, hesitant. Chloe and Lizzie had gone to bed. I didn't want to wake them. They'd done so much already—they deserved to sleep without worrying about me.
But still, the weight in my chest wouldn't lift. I couldn't sit here and stew in it. I couldn't go back to the version of me that curled up and convinced herself that maybe this time would be different.
My gaze drifted to the napkin again.
Tristan.
I picked it up and traced the numbers with my thumb.
"If you ever need me."
God, was that just something people said? Or did he mean it?
I stared at my phone for what felt like forever. Then, slowly and carefully, I typed in the number. My finger hovered over the call button.
I'm not bothering him. I'm not.
I pressed it.
The ring echoed in my ear, each tone louder than the last, my pulse thrumming with it. One ring. Two. Maybe he's asleep. Maybe he didn't mean it after all. This was stupid—
"Winter?" His voice. Groggy, low, but alert. Concern sliced through the sleep in his tone like he'd been ready for this.
I swallowed hard, suddenly unsure. "I-I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called. It's late, I just…"
"No," he said, firmly. "I told you. Anytime. I meant it."
A lump rose in my throat. My hand tightened around the phone.
"I didn't know who else to call."
"You did the right thing," he said. There was a rustle, like he was sitting up. "Are you okay? Are you safe?"
"I'm home. I just…" I stared around my room, the shadows curling at the corners, the silence crawling back in. "I woke up and couldn't breathe. Everything still feels... too close."
His voice softened. "That makes sense."
I didn't respond right away. A tear slid down my cheek. I wiped it quickly like he could see it.
But it still feels like I've done something wrong," I whispered, my throat tight. "Like walking away, like saying no, means I've broken something I can't fix." But it's his rules, not my failures. His choices, not mine, I reminded myself, though the guilt still clung stubbornly.
"Now I don't even know what I'm supposed to do next."
There was a pause. Then: "Winter… he made you think love meant control. That's not on you. That's on him."
My breath hitched. "How do I stop feeling like I'm broken?"
"You're not broken," he said as if it were absolute, like it was a fact. "You're surviving. There's a difference."
I closed my eyes. Let those words wrap around me. I didn't even realize how badly I needed someone to say that out loud.
"I'll stay on the phone as long as you need," Tristan added quietly. "You don't even have to talk. I can just be here."
A sob escaped before I could stop it—half relief, half heartbreak.
"Thank you," I whispered.
And I stayed on the line, curled beneath my blanket, listening to the soft rhythm of his breathing on the other end. Just knowing someone was there. Just knowing I wasn't alone.
Not anymore.
I closed my eyes, and for a moment, I wasn't in my bed.
I was back in Eric's apartment.
It was late—past midnight. I remember the clock because I had stared at it too long, hoping he wouldn't come home in this kind of mood. But he did.
He slammed the door hard enough to rattle the picture frames. My whole body flinched, heart in my throat.
"Why weren't you answering me?" His voice was sharp, slicing through the stillness. "I texted you ten times."
I had been asleep. I told him that. I even showed him my phone, as if proof would make it better.
But nothing made it better.
"You don't sleep when I'm out. That's not what we do," he said, stepping closer, his words louder with each step. "What if something happened to me? What if I needed you?"
My back had hit the wall. I remembered the feel of cold paint against my spine, how small I felt shrinking beneath his shadow.
"I'm sorry," I had whispered, though I hadn't done anything wrong. That never seemed to matter.
He punched the cabinet beside my head. The crash of glass—his whiskey tumbler—hit the floor and shattered. My ears rang. My knees buckled.
And then he was crying. Again. Sinking to the floor, broken glass glinting around him like tiny landmines.
"I don't want to lose you," he choked out. "I just love you so much it hurts."
I knelt beside him. Stupid. Careless. I picked glass from his skin with trembling fingers. Told him it was okay. That I was okay. That we'd be okay.
But we weren't.
We never were.
Back in the present, I shivered, the cool air of the room brushing against my skin. My grip on the phone tightened, the warmth reminding me I was here and not back there. Tristan hadn't said anything, just breathed steady and soft on the other end, grounding me.
And I wasn't alone.
"Can you come over?" I asked, my voice barely making it out through the tightness in my chest. I was starting to hyperventilate. Short, shallow breaths that didn't reach deep enough to calm anything.
There was a pause on the line. Not hesitation—just silence, the kind that made space for panic to leak out of me.
"What's your address?" Tristan's voice was low, careful. Not urgent, not pressing—just there. Solid. Safe.
I rattled it off between uneven breaths, wiping my eyes even though the tears kept coming.
"Okay," he said immediately. "I'll be there in twenty. Don't hang up unless you have to, alright?"
A choked sound left my throat. Not quite a word. Not quite a sob. I nodded, forgetting he couldn't see me. "Okay," I whispered. "Okay."
I stood up on shaky legs, walking around my room because if I sat down, I knew I'd fall apart. My fingers kept tightening around the phone like it might vanish if I let go.
"I—I didn't know who else to call," I admitted after a long moment. My voice cracked. "I'm sorry if this is too much—"
"It's not," he said instantly. "You don't have to apologize. You called the right person."
That did it.
I slid to the floor again, sobbing now. Not from fear this time—but from the sheer relief of not being met with blame or judgment or silence.
Just him.
And the promise that someone was finally coming for me.
Tristan didn't say much after that. He didn't need to. His quiet presence filled the room better than any words could. I focused on the rhythm of his breath, trying to match it with mine, trying to remember that this was now, not then.
Not him. Not Eric.
Tristan was different. He came when I asked. He remained quiet when the silence required gentleness.
He was coming. And for once, I didn't feel crazy for needing so.
I stumbled down the stairs, the walls tilting around me as dizziness pulled at my balance. Each step felt like walking through water, my vision swimming at the edges.
"I'm almost there," Tristan said over the phone.
His voice steadied me, anchored me just enough to keep moving. I clutched the railing, my knuckles white, breathing like I was trying to outrun the panic still gnawing at the edges of my mind.
The living room was dark. I hadn't bothered with the lights. The silence here wasn't peaceful anymore—it buzzed like something alive, something watching.
"I'm at the end of your street," he said a moment later. "House with the green shutters, right?"
"Yes," I whispered. My hand trembled as I reached for the front door. The night air hit me like a wave—cool, sharp, real.
And then I saw him, phone still pressed to his ear. His eyes met mine across the distance—wide with concern, but calm. Grounded. Like nothing could shake him.
I dropped the phone without meaning to. My knees gave out on the porch steps, but I didn't fall.
Because he caught me.
His arms wrapped around me before the fear could take hold again. Not too tight. Not possessive. Just enough.
Just right.
"I've got you," he murmured, breath warm against my hair. "You're okay. I've got you now."
And for the first time in a long time, I believed it.
But once the silence settled, so did everything I'd been avoiding. My throat tightened—words pressed against my teeth, too heavy to swallow back down.
"I left him tonight," I blurted, voice barely above a whisper. "Eric. For real this time. I walked away and didn't look back."
Tristan didn't speak. He just held me tighter, like he already knew what that meant.
"And then I had this nightmare," I kept going, the words tumbling over each other like they were afraid I'd shut them back in. "I saw him. Or heard him. I don't know. I woke up and I couldn't breathe and everything just—caved in. I panicked."
I shook my head against his chest, eyes squeezed shut. "I shouldn't have called you. I didn't mean to drag you into my mess. You were probably sleeping or busy or—I don't know."
"Winter," he said, his voice low and steady, "stop."
I did. More because I couldn't talk around the lump in my throat than anything else.
He pulled back just enough to see my face, his thumb brushing gently over my cheekbone. "You didn't drag me into anything. I want to be here. With you. For you."
I looked at him, really looked at the red eyes that somehow never felt scary, at the mouth that never lied to me, at the boy who didn't flinch when I unraveled in front of him.
His voice dropped, softer now. "Something happened tonight."
My breath caught. "What do you mean?"
He hesitated, like he was searching for the right words in the dark. "I don't know how to explain it. But the second I saw you at the club, I felt… something shift. Like something lit between us. A spark."
He let out a slow breath, eyes flickering across my face. "And then when you called me tonight… it didn't feel random. It felt right. Like—whatever this is? It started tonight. And I felt it."
My chest ached in that dizzy, fragile way hope does when it's new and still a little afraid.
"I felt it too," I whispered.
His expression changed—like relief and wonder all tangled into one.
He touched my hand again, threading our fingers together like a promise. "Whatever happens next… I don't want to pretend this didn't mean something."
"It did," I said. "It does."
"But what if this is too much?" I asked. "What if I'm too much?"
He leaned in, pressing his forehead against mine, his voice soft and sure. "Then I'll carry it with you. Every heavy, messy part."
I didn't realize I was crying until his fingers wiped the tears from my jaw. I tried to apologize again, but he kissed the top of my head and whispered, "No more sorrys. Not tonight."
So I let myself stay in his arms, letting the fear drain out of me bit by bit until all that remained was the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear.
And for once, I didn't feel like I had to hold everything together.
He was helping me carry it.
He helped me up the stairs. Carefully, gently. One arm around my waist, the other steadying my hand on the railing. He didn't rush me. Didn't speak unless I needed him to. Just matched my slow, unsteady pace with a calmness that made it easier to breathe.
Each step still felt like a mountain, but with him beside me, I didn't feel like I was climbing it alone.
At the top, I hesitated. The hallway stretched ahead like something unfamiliar, even though it was my house, my space. Trauma made even the known feel strange.
Tristan didn't push. He waited. Let me move first.
I led him to my room, heart pounding harder with every step. Not from fear—at least, not the old kind. It was the weight of vulnerability. Of letting someone in. Of hoping it wouldn't break me.
Once inside, I paused near the bed, swaying a little. He reached out instinctively—not to catch me, to offer. A hand at my back, grounding and light.
"You want to sit?" he asked softly.
I nodded, sinking onto the edge of the mattress. My legs felt like paper. My chest still tight. But I was here. I had asked for help.
And he'd come.
He crouched in front of me, eyes searching mine without prying. "You're safe now, Winter. I promise."
The dam broke again—a quiet sob, then another. I didn't even try to stop them this time.
And when he reached for my hand, I let him. Because for the first time in so long, I didn't feel like I had to survive alone.
"I feel so stupid, I just met you," I covered my face with my hands.
Tristan gently reached up, his fingers curling around my wrists, coaxing my hands away from my face. His touch was careful—never forceful.
"Hey," he said softly, his eyes searching mine. "Don't say that."
I tried to look away, but he didn't let me sink into the shame. Not this time.
"I just met you," I murmured, voice shaking. "And here I am, falling apart in front of you."
His thumb brushed lightly against my hand. "You're not falling apart. You're finally letting yourself feel safe enough to breathe."
That made something crack open in me again—a gentler ache this time—a quiet kind of truth.
"And for the record," he added, voice steady and warm, "you don't have to earn care. You don't have to know someone for years to deserve comfort. You're allowed to be human. To need someone."
I blinked hard, trying to hold back the fresh wave of tears.
Tristan smiled, just a little. "Besides," he said, leaning in just enough that his shoulder brushed mine, "I think we were supposed to meet."
And somehow, for the first time in what felt like forever, I didn't feel ashamed of needing someone.
I just felt… seen.
I collapsed into him, arms wrapped tight, my head buried in his shoulder. And for the first time in forever, I let myself exhale. I was safe. I didn't have to fight it anymore.
He wraps his arms around me, slow and certain, like he's done it a hundred times before. His chest is warm against mine, steady—anchoring. Then he leans in and presses a soft kiss to the top of my head.
His fingers trace slow, calming circles against my back. I don't pull away. I don't want to.
He was so close—right there beside me—but he hadn't touched me since I let go of his hand. Not once.
Not without asking.
Not without checking.
It was the strangest thing to notice. Or maybe the saddest.
Because I realized I'd spent so long being handled like something someone owned, touched without thought, grabbed like I didn't have a say in my own skin. Eric's grip had been harsh, leaving purple reminders of his power over me, each bruise a stamp of my lost autonomy. That this kind of stillness felt foreign, suspicious even. But Tristan wasn't staying away out of discomfort. When his touch came, it was with an open palm, a gentle reassurance seeking permission rather than taking possession.
He was staying still out of respect.
Not distance. Not coldness. Just… waiting.
And somehow, that felt like the warmest thing of all.
Slowly, deliberately, Tristan pulled the hoodie off over his head, the soft fabric sliding down his shoulders. He folded it carefully and set it on the nightstand with quiet care, like it was something precious—not something to be tossed aside.
The movement was so gentle, so unhurried, it made my chest ache in the best way.
My breath has steadied; the storm inside has finally eased into something softer. I tug his hand gently, wordless, and he follows without hesitation.
We sank onto the bed together. I curled into his chest, letting the warmth of him fill all the empty, aching spaces—his arm drapes around me like it belongs there, like I belong here.
For the first time in what feels like forever, I exhale without flinching.
Finally—free.
His voice, low and close, brushed against my hair. "You feel a little more like yourself now?"
I nodded, but don't pull away. I feel his heart beating beneath my cheek, steady and real. "More than I have in a long time."
He shifted just enough so he could look down at me, our legs still tangled beneath the blanket.
"Good," he said, brushing a lock of hair from my face. "Because I kind of like who you are."
A small laugh slipped out. "You barely know me."
"True. But I want to."
He leaned back a little, propping himself against the headboard, pulling me with him so we're both sitting up now, still close.
"Okay," I said, curiosity flickering to life. "Tell me something about you I wouldn't guess."
He runs a hand through his hair, thinking. "I love classical piano. Chopin, mostly. It's… grounding. Kind of the opposite of everything else in my life."
"Seriously?" I blinked.
He grinned. "What, did you peg me as strictly doom metal?"
"Not strictly," I teased. "But it's kind of your vibe."
He laughed. "Fair. I do like the heavy stuff. Depends on the mood. Sometimes it's Gojira. Sometimes it's Nine Inch Nails. Or just silence. That one's underrated."
"Okay, that's a little terrifying," I said, grinning. "You sit in total silence?"
"Not often. But when I do, it's loud."
I paused, watching him, then said, "I mostly listen to pop punk and alt stuff. You know—Paramore, old Fall Out Boy, that kind of thing. I used to scream Misery Business in my bedroom like it was therapy. But I'm also into heavier stuff, Spiritbox, Bad Omens, Dayseeker."
He smiled. "You still do, don't you? Scream Misery Business."
I laughed. "Guilty."
"What got you into that scene?"
"Being thirteen, angry, and stuck in a house with people who didn't listen." I shrug. "And Chloe. She introduced me to Sleep Token last year, and I've been obsessed ever since. It's like… rage and romance in the same breath."
He nodded slowly, visibly impressed. "That makes a lot of sense. You've got that kind of energy."
"What kind of energy?"
"Like you'd punch a wall and cry about it five minutes later. But in a poetic way."
I burst out laughing. "Wow. That's freakishly accurate."
"I'm gifted," he said, deadpan.
"Okay, your turn," I said, nudging him. "Favorite band, go."
He leaned his head back, thinking. "Right now? Probably Deftones. But Type O Negative is eternal. And when I want to be dramatic, Chelsea Wolfe."
"God, of course you like Chelsea Wolfe."
"What? Too on-brand?"
"Way too."
We fall into an easy rhythm—trading band names, song lyrics, album heartbreaks. The kind of conversation that feels like flipping through a friend's old playlist at midnight, finding your own ghosts in their music.
It's not just about what we like. It's about who we were when we found it.
By the time we stop talking, the room is quieter. Softer. Closer.
I rest my head against his shoulder, our fingers still entwined.
"Thanks," I murmured.
"For what?"
"For not being just another guy pretending to care about what I listen to."
"I don't pretend," he said. "When it comes to you… I'm listening."
He shifted slightly, adjusting his arm around me. The soft cotton of his tee pulls taut, revealing a pale, jagged scar near the bend of his elbow—half-hidden in shadow, easy to miss unless you're looking.
I am.
The sight made my breath catch for just a second. But I don't ask. I don't trace it with my fingers, even though something in me aches to. I press a little closer, like maybe silence can be a kind of understanding too.
He tilted his head down, murmuring, "Good. Because I kind of like who you are."
A small, unexpected smile tugged at my lips. "You've only known me for a little while."
"I've known you long enough to know I'd stay if you let me."
My heart stumbled—just a little—but this time it's not from fear. It's from hope.
So I held on tighter.
And whispered, "Then don't go."
I felt his breath catch against my hair. He didn't say anything right away—just tightened his arms around me, pulling me close like he was afraid I'd slip through his fingers.
"I mean it," I whispered again, softer this time. "Don't go."
His voice cracked a little when he finally answered. "I've never had anyone say that and mean it."
I pulled back just enough to look up at him. "What do you mean?"
Tristan's eyes searched mine like he was trying to decide whether to let the words out or swallow them back down.
"My parents left me here when I was four years old. My friends leave. Sometimes I burn everything down before they get the chance. Sometimes I don't even notice until it's too late." He paused, jaw tight. "I stopped expecting anyone to stay."
A knot formed in my chest, twisting deep. I reached up and brushed a strand of hair from his face, letting my hand rest on his cheek.
"You're not too much," I said, steady now. "You're not something to run from."
His eyes welled, but he blinked it back. "You don't even know everything yet."
"I don't need to," I said. "Not all at once. But I know enough."
There was silence—thick and sacred—and then he leaned in, resting his forehead against mine.
"Can I just have this?" he asked quietly. "This moment. Without fear?"
I nodded, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. "Yeah. Me too."
We sat there like that for a while—hearts pressed close, words folded between us, too sacred to rush.
Then, when it felt like the ache had settled just enough to breathe again, he pulled back with a soft smile that didn't quite hide the sadness in his eyes.
"What else?" he asked. "Music aside. Favorite movie?"
"Easy. Practical Magic."
"That tracks. Witches, trauma, sisterhood, midnight margaritas..."
I nudge his arm. "All right, your turn. Favorite meal?"
He tilts his head like the question stumps him. "Honestly? Anything spicy. I could live on curry. Or this chili my friend Gabriel makes—it's borderline dangerous. Clears your sinuses and your soul."
I laugh. "You strike me as a spice masochist."
He shrugs, half-grinning. "I like to feel something. Favorite color?"
I pretend to think. "Black, obviously."
He chuckled. "I should've guessed. But what's your real favorite color?"
I glance down at our hands still entwined. "Maroon, maybe. That bruised red that feels like velvet."
His gaze lingered on me, deeper now. "That suits you."
We fell quiet for a moment. It's not awkward—just full. Like we've filled the space between us with something shared and quiet and real.
Then he said, softer, "Do you want to keep asking questions?"
I look at him, feeling safer than I thought I could. "Yeah. I do."
And so we do.
We talked about everything and nothing. The worst book he's ever read. My irrational fear of mannequins. His secret talent for sketching. The time I accidentally dyed my hair green in high school. He tells me about his sister, Vanessa, twelve, already smarter than most adults. I tell him about Kari and how sometimes I feel more like her mother than her sister.
Time slipped by unnoticed, the kind of hours that only exist when two people stop pretending to be anything but themselves. The room wrapped us in its quiet embrace, every sound hushed by the weight of the night. I could hear the soft creak of floorboards settling beneath us as if the house, too, was breathing in sync with our stillness. Eventually, I rested my head against his shoulder again, eyes fluttering shut. A part of me wondered in the quiet: Could morning really feel different?