Page 87 of Beautiful When He Breaks

“Don’t,” he says, and there’s more command in his voice than I’m used to from him. “Do not finish that sentence by turning yourself into something filthy because somebody hurt you.”

I stare at him. My whole body is keyed up enough that even his hands on me feel bigger than they should. Heat spreads low under my ribs in a way that would be embarrassing if I wasn’t also one bad second away from cracking in half.

He sees all of it.

His expression softens, but his hands stay where they are. “Babe,” he says, quieter now, “listen to me.”

I swallow hard, and not only because of what he just called me.

“They are going to look at you differently,” he says, and the words hit so wrong at first that my whole chest goes cold again. Then he keeps going.

“They’re going to look at you like somebody they should’ve protected better. They’re all furious because you’ve been hurt and carrying it under the same damn roof they’ve been laughing in and eating in and calling home.” His thumb moves once against the side of my neck. “That’s different, yeah. But not in the way you’re scared of. Nobody downstairs thinks you’re weak or that you asked for it. They know Blakely manipulated and abused you, and they’re not blaming you for it.”

The conviction in his voice nearly undoes me, and I look down because suddenly holding eye contact feels impossible.

“I don’t know how to stop feeling this way,” I admit.

Eli’s hands leave my face only so he can hook both arms around me and pull me in. I go still for half a heartbeat, then my forehead drops to his shoulder and my hands fist in the back of his shirt. He’s warm, solid, and smells like soap and that clean Eli smell I know too well now. The second I let myself lean, the shame in me loosens one impossible inch.

“I hate this,” I say into his shoulder. “I hate that it’s in the room now.”

“I know.”

“I hate that they know.”

His arms tighten. “I know, babe.”

“I hate that I’m this… big fucking athlete, and yet I still managed to get abused.”

Eli kisses the side of my head and sighs. “I know.”

Every answer is the same, and somehow that helps. He isn’t correcting the feeling or trying to logic me out of it. He’s just there, holding me through it, and I think maybe that’s what I needed more than anything else. Not reassurance, exactly. Something sturdier. Presence. Proof.

“Being a man doesn’t make your consent automatic,” he whispers my own words from weeks ago back to me. He keeps his mouth near my hairline, one steady hand sliding slowly up my back. “And being built the way you are doesn’t make you immune to any of it either. Abuse is abuse.”

My eyesight starts to blur with tears, and I find myself unable to reply to that.

“Being strong doesn’t mean he didn’t hurt you, and being an athlete doesn’t mean you should’ve been able to stop it. It just means some piece of shit saw all that and still thought he had the right to take what he wanted.” He draws back enough to look at me then, his eyes bright and hard and heartbreakingly certain. “None of that makes you weak, Jules. It makes him a predator.”

I fold into him again, silently crying—each tear feeling like a fucking release. My people know, and I know they didn’t judge me, but that doesn’t take the shame away. Not yet, at least.

We stay that way for a while, long enough that my breathing evens out and the panic stops scraping so hard at my ribs. His hand continues to move slowly up and down my back in a rhythm that is more soothing than he probably realizes. Or maybe he realizes it exactly. I don’t know anymore. I only know that by the time I lift my head, the room feels less tilted.

Eli doesn’t step away. He’s close enough that the front of our bodies still touch, and I can see the concern in his eyes give way to something warmer the second he realizes I’m not shaking anymore.

“You okay?” he asks.

It’s a stupid question; we both know that. It’s also the only question either of us ever really asks, when what we mean is: are you still with me right here, right now, in this exact second?

“Better,” I say honestly.

His mouth softens. “Good.”

The air between us changes with that one word. I feel it happen. So does he. The whole room seems to tip from one kind of intimacy into another. My hands are still gathered in the back of his shirt. His arms are still around me. His face is inches from mine. The shift is so natural and so dangerous that I almost laugh at its absurdity.

“You calm me down too easily,” I murmur, because saying something feels safer than just standing there wanting him.

Eli leans in and rubs his nose against mine. “You say that like it’s a complaint.”