His hand rubs small circles across my back. Not rushed. Not uncertain. Just gentle—like he's done it a thousand times before. Because he has. It used to be instinct, back when comfort between us wasn't something we had to negotiate. Back when it was simple.
Now, nothing is simple. Almost everything is complicated. And confusing.
The tears have stopped. My breathing's slowed. I don't feel better, exactly. Just emptied out. Like a raincloud that finally poured itself dry.
But Elliot stays. His presence doesn't retreat just because the storm passed. He rests his chin lightly atop my head, still holding me, as if he knows I'm not ready to be released.
And I'm not. I hate how natural it feels.
He whispers something, voice low, soft, the way you'd speak in a church or a dream. "You're strong, you know that?"
I don't answer. I let his words touch my heart.
