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Suddenly, a wave of unease washes over me, teetering on the edge of a full-blown panic attack. It's as if everything around me is spiraling out of control, echoing past experiences where my voice went unheard, where I was ignored and taken advantage of, then simply erased.
My heartbeat quickens, racing like a thoroughbred at the starting gate.
As if to punctuate the mayhem, the mover nonchalantly brushes past the hallway strewn with boxes, uttering a parting jab of "Fuck off, lady."
My eyes bulge so wide that it's a miracle they stay in their sockets.
"Say that to my face!" Harper retorts as she charges after.
This hallway is about to become a war zone! Lunging forward, I grasp onto Harper's bicep and try to jerk back.
"What did you just say?" A commanding voice from the neighboring apartment shouts, the music cuts off, and everything goes radio silent.
The newcomer's deep baritone jolts me like an electric shock, snapping my attention back into focus. It's a voice that cuts through the tension, demanding acknowledgment—the opposite of what my voice has been for the past years.
This isn't just someone speaking; it's someone asserting their authority.
Reacting instinctually, I grip Harper's arm a tad too tightly, eliciting a wince that tells me I may have overdone it.
A tall figure steps into view in an almost choreographed move—the man with the arm sling. “I know I misheard you. I know,” he strides slowly like a predator stepping out to pounce on some poor animal at a watering hole. Each step makes my heart slow into a deep thump that makes me shake.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
“You did not just speak that way to a lady.” He begins, his voice radiating confidence that could rival a lion's roar. Moving past us, he stands like a shield between us and the retreating movers.
"Oh, I love Texas; It's like a real-life cowboy standoff," Harper mutters as her body relaxes.
I respond with a well-placed elbow to her ribs. Now is not the time. I'm practically falling down a hole of panic.
My "charming" movers size up the man. The elevator chimes its arrival, and the two scramble into it.
Inhaling deeply, the man flexes his muscles, his back resembling a choreographed routine from a bodybuilding competition. I've read about backs like his in romance novels and seen them grace the screens of superhero films, but to witness a muscled back like this in person is a sensory overload of epic proportions.
And then, in a cinematic moment, he pivots, and it feels like time has decided to take a coffee break. My heart races as his gaze looks past Harper to my shaking form behind her.
"Do you want me to get them?" He asks as if it would be simple to drag two grown men out of the elevator and toss them at our feet.
"Hell, yes," Harper replies.
"No." I squeak. “Just let them go. I'll try using Duck Tape to assemble everything.”
His eyes bounce from Harper to me. I expect them to go back to my supermodel best friends, but they remain on me, looking me up and down.
I feel hot, feverish, panicky, and…strangely relaxed under his glare. It’s the way his eyes zoom in on me. It’s…well, I can’t find words to describe it, only feelings. I feel like a thirsty seed that was just drenched with water, refreshed and renewed like I can grow again and poke my head out of the soil that has been covering me.
I want to grow again because I like how he’s looking at me, like the sun warming my cold roots.
“I won’t let them hurt you," he says, his voice steady.
Suddenly, his statement makes me want to cry because he knows. He can see what I’ve hidden from Harper. From everyone.
I’ve been hurt. Badly.
Those who know you best are blind; they can't see the change. Strangers, though, they see the scars clearly. In fact, it's the scars they notice first.
He flexes his muscles subtly as he speaks, a quiet display of strength. With a confident nod, his unwavering gaze locks with mine, an unspoken promise of protection. More than his words, the assurance in his eyes begins to unravel the tight knot of fear that Andrew tied deep inside me.
This stranger sees me. I’m not erased.
