Chapter Sixteen

Zoe

T he five stitches itch underneath the bandage on my forehead.

It's late Saturday night—or early Sunday morning—and I have to survive another two days before I'm scheduled for suture removal. I won't claw them off with my nails like a small child. I'm an adult with excellent self-control.

I'm all blankets and bent up angles as I snuggle into the too-fluffy pillows in the corner of Miles's sofa. True to his words, he was unwavering in his unilateral decision to move me across the hall. Into his house.

The second my discharge papers were issued and signed, he drove me home. Before that, he didn't leave my bedside for more than eight minutes—I counted—the entire time I was hospitalized, eating insipid hospital food and sleeping, all folded at odd angles, in the chair that seemed child-sized under him.

When I saw a shadow in my window and my skin erupted in suspicion, he was there with a bouquet of peonies to smooth the sharp pinpricks, to chase my ghosts away and make me feel protected.

When I walked the corridor of almost-death with a coat of cold sweat, it was the warmth of his patient hand at the small of my back grounding me, leading my trembling feet towards door 39-02.

Grandpa comes every day, hands full with snacks and board games, staying until Miles returns from practice. Some days, he stays for dinner, praising and indulging in his new grandson's cooking skills. Because he does treat Miles like his grandson. I would feel more guilty if I didn't know their relationship had been born before, our little lie doing nothing but strengthen it.

Mom keeps her checkups to religious calls (voice and video) and quick visits, always bearing gifts from Rosario—whom I forbid from visiting after she got the jitters after five minutes of sitting with me and tried to dust Miles's cabinets—like my absolute favorite carrot cake with chocolate frosting, which soon became Camila's favorite, too.

Father never came. He never called. It's for the best. It is.

My mailbox is already suffocated with chaotic texts from my delightful work partner. I requested Liam to keep me permanently updated on work. True to his promise, he texts every two hours, nine out of nine messages being office gossip or complaints about his temporary reassigned partner—an intern who, in blondie's words, uses the word like as a preface to every sentence and abuses his stinky cologne so much it he must have depleted the entire state's stock. Safe to say, Liam's short patience is thinner than ever.

Even Nicholas, the brooding giant, makes an appearance—more to check on his best friend than to see me. I'm grateful all the same. In fact, I'm particularly grateful someone checks on Miles. At times, I'm convinced he's taking the whole ordeal worse than I am. It's strangely heartwarming that he wants to take care of me, but he borders on being a helicopter mother.

I know the hand of guilt is a tight fist around his throat, no matter how many times I tell him that he's not responsible for anything, in any remote way. He blames himself, and he'll keep doing it, punishing himself and overcompensating for something that wasn't his fault.

On Thursday, all the planets aligned, and the quiet solitude of the thirty-ninth floor extinguished in a show of impeccable timing.

Balled up in my blanket and a white t-shirt I relocated from Miles' pile of clean laundry, I watched as the bell announced arrival after arrival. And, person after person after person, Miles's living room became a crowded playground.

He settles next to me, an arm on the sofa behind me and legs spread along one of the arms of the U-shaped-sofa, close enough that I taste the heat radiating off his body and feel his scent around me, but not close enough to touch one inch of my skin.

Camila sat cross-legged on pillows she'd thrown on the floor, munching on the basket of candy and chocolates in her lap—which she claimed she had brought for me. Behind her, Nicholas manspread in the middle of the couch, occasionally bending forward to (shockingly) steal sugar from Camila. She complained, but her eyes glinted with pleasure. Very unlike Rodrigo, who shot daggers at an unbothered Nichoas everytime he bent close to his sister.

Grandpa, our narrator, occupied the other arm of the U all the way on the opposite side—not with his body, that's starting to show signs of wrinkling and wilting with time; with his voice, filled with joy, and his spirit that, in that very moment, remained timeless. Looking over Boston with London in his eyes.

For a fleeting second, I closed my eyes and was almost transported to memories of a childhood I'd never had. Little friends around a bonfire, tied together by friendship and treasured stories of old lives.

That's what Grandpa called them, tales of another lifetime . Enraptured by his eloquence and the adventures of a young man in love, we clung to every word that dripped with accent—thicker, less filtered, like he'd been transported back in time, living and reliving every word.

At some point, Camila tipped her head back in her typical uproarious laughter. Soon, everyone joined the off-key cackling, even Nicholas, in his own way—I was convinced the corners of his lips tilted, but with his head angled in Camila's direction, I couldn't be sure.

In that moment, there was no space for aches and wishes; only gratitude to discover true friendship and a support system.

Upon the five chimes of the clock, Miles politely kicked everyone out, Grandpa Toby included, under the guise that it was time for me to rest—which only earned him further respect from the old man, if possible. I sat and watched, grateful, as he hushed them out.

I'm beyond grateful for the concern, but I'm not used to being fussed over. The line between feeling cared for and feeling suffocated is thin to someone who's used to fending for herself.

After his goodbyes, Miles retraced his steps back to me. His fingers shot crimson warmth to my cheeks from my chin as he gently held it, checking scar and stitches, asking me questions I'd answered a thousand times before.

Yes, I'm okay.

No, I'm not in any pain.

His breath fanned my face, stoking the flames in my cheeks. He had done that so many times I'd memorized his touch. I memorized the small beauty mark under his right eye, hidden by dark lashes that framed his eyes. Unwavering, they saw more than I knew existed.

Once he was satisfied with my answers, he walked to the kitchen, washed his hands, and began cooking our dinner. Leaving me to sit with myself and breathe.

It's foreign—to willingly place such trust in someone else. I swore to myself I would never allow anyone to manage my life. But Miles does it out of care for me—not to control me. Every step of the way, every small decision, he's checked with me. He took the lead, yet I'm still in control.

And thus, we fell quickly, effortlessly, down this rabbit hole into a routine that feels entirely too comfortable.

Especially when it's some ungodly hour in the morning and my brain refuses to settle down because he isn't under the same roof tonight.

Miles is traveling with his team, playing—winning—an away game in Philadelphia, and I'm alone for the first time since I was attacked.

I feel disoriented with sleep, yet it refuses to claim me. The TV is on, a mute companion playing with the dark room, casting blinding white upon the walls at its whim. A quick click murmurs in the quiet, deafening when I realize it floats from the door .

In a heartbeat, the beat of my heart goes off in my chest, my breathing mimicking the tempo. My limbs, however, do not. They're unmoving, frozen, rendered utterly useless. My knees curl to shield my chest, steeled by strength I never knew my arms possessed.

Distantly, I catalog the list of signs and symptoms of a panic attack, but I can't stop it.

A voice screams at me to move, hide. Do something. But that thing in my chest is a giant wave breaking and pushing me down under an ocean where oxygen is absent and I can't do anything but wait it out—until I can come up for breath.

In the darkness, I see a gray glint. I feel crimson stickiness coat my hands; a pungent metallic smell assaults my nose.

A movie I've seen before. Though, not really.

A different ending.

Paralyzed, the screams in my head whisper.

Run.

Hide.

Fight.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Warmth and gentle hands seep with the soft steady word, the soothing voice penetrating through the water in my ears, pulling me out from the depths of a dark sea.

"Breathe, Zoe. It's okay. You're okay. You're safe, love."

Calloused familiarity cradles my face, the rough pads of his thumbs brush my cheeks, again and again and again, a rope slowly rescuing me from the grasp of the demons in my head.

I peel my eyes open to find metallic gray staring at me.

The gray of my dreams and of my nightmares, but never of my terrors.

"I'm here. You're safe. I'm here, love." He glues his forehead to mine, eyes falling closed as he keeps stroking, repeating the words. Like a prayer, a mantra, as much for him as they're for me. "Breathe. Just… breathe. You're safe."

I do. I breathe in as he breathes out and I breathe out as he breathes in. Until I can breathe again. Fresh air in my lungs. Tender hands slowing my heartbeat. Calming murmurs quieting my brain.

"I'm sorry, love. I didn't mean to scare you. I'm sorry."

Miles wraps his arms around me, holding me tight until the trembling subsides and my hands that fist his shirt let go.

Suddenly, I'm as exhausted as I am wired, a current of electricity having shifted my instincts to fight mode. And Miles is the only punching bag in sight.

So I push him away.

"What are you doing here?" I say. "I thought your flight was in the morning."

The words scrape my sore throat, rough and accusatory.

But he is n't supposed to be here. His team is staying in Philadelphia for the night after the game, scheduled to catch a flight back early tomorrow—well, today, to be accurate. He isn't supposed to be back before lunchtime.

And yet, he is.

Black Henley all wrinkled, sleeves bunched around forearms like he didn't take the time to roll them up. Dark hair the mess of waves it always becomes when he washes it without styling it. Purple smudges under his eyes sharpen the hardness of his cheekbones.

God, he looks beautiful, all broken and disheveled and here.

Why is he here ?

"I drove."

"You... You drove," I parrot his words, because what else can I say to that?

"You were alone." His eyes trace every inch of my face, still scanning for any signs of distress. He should find many, because I am distressed. "And you haven't been sleeping well."

Then his gaze trails down, and I know what he sees. I'm a mess in more ways than one, swallowed by a stolen hoodie and sweatpants.

His clothes.

All the rage that electrifies my blood vanishes instantly, leaving behind only the strength to whisper a question to which I don't want the answer—I already know it. "You drove almost 6 hours at night so I could sleep."

"You haven't been sleeping well," he repeats, running a hand through strands of messy hair, messier every time he replicates the movement. "I didn't want you all alone here."

Something lumpy materializes in my throat. I swallow, but it won't dislodge, so I'll blame it for my silence. I can pretend it isn't because I don't know what to say. I can't form or find the words to translate the things inside me.

So, my eyes decide to let it out.

As the first tear falls, so does Miles.

He stares at the droplet with an astounded, agonized look. Before the next one descends, he's kneeling on the floor. Quickly, carefully, he pulls me against his chest.

I go willingly. I let myself fall into him. Somehow, somewhere deep inside my core, I know he'll catch me.

"It's okay. I got you," Miles murmurs against my hair in a tender voice that makes the tears fall faster, hard pelts running down my skin, soaking his shirt .

In his arms, Miles gathers me, all my broken pieces, and holds me together as I fall apart.

"I got you, Zoe."

He's got me.

He's got me.

And he does.

Miles hugs me as I cry, the turbulent ocean bursting through the confines of my emotional walls.

He doesn't try to stop my tears with words that would make them feel inadequate. He doesn't tell me to stop crying because everything will be okay. And for someone who grew up being told salty drops of water are shameful and unnecessary, this simple acceptance is freeing. It makes me cry harder.

Miles picks all my broken pieces, and keeps them safe in his pocket until I'm strong enough to start putting them back together.

With each sob, he grips me tighter against him, rocking me back and forth to the steady beat of his heart. He rubs his cheek against the crown of my head and murmurs sweet words that make me feel less alone.

My head hurts with each guttural sob that wrecks me, body shaking like it would fall apart. Tucking myself into the crook of his neck, into that nook that's purely untainted Miles, I settle, for minutes or hours, soaking his shirt with my sobs and my fears until they subside and my skull throbs.

Until his heart, a hasty thump in my ear, becomes a slow thud, a soothing melody. It seems to have a voice of its own, and so many words it whispers in my ear that I can't grasp them all.

I look up, the outline of his lips under the moonlight all I see in the flickering dark.

Miles is poison ivy, slow, slow, slowly wrapping himself around each inch I willingly give, and stealing all the others, until he burrows so deep inside, he'll be part of my bones and my blood and my very soul.

How will I get rid of him without draining and losing myself?

"Careful, love," he says with a soft smile. "I might think you don't hate me so much after all."

I sniff, tucking myself back into him. "Don't flatter yourself."