Page 166 of Break Me

For a second, I don’t move.

I can still feel it. The echo of her hand in mine. The sound of my own laughter sits somewhere inside like it hasn’t caught up yet.

Then I blink, and it’s gone.

My gaze lifts to his, and something in his expression settles me before I can even ask what’s wrong.

“Your dad’s here,” he says quietly, his hand still warm against my arm.

I nod, small, and he leans in, pressing his lips to my temple, lingering there a second longer than he usually does, like he doesn’t want to pull away.

When he straightens, I follow the movement toward the doorway.

He’s standing there.

Not speaking.

Not moving.

Something in my chest tightens, slow and deep, and I lift my hand toward him without thinking, the movement heavier than it should be.

He moves toward me. Every step is slower than I remember, like he’s aware of everything now, like even getting closer to me requires more than it should.

Sam steps back as he approaches, giving him the space without a word, but not before his hand comes up, brief and steady, clasping my dad’s shoulder as they pass. Something unspoken passing between them in that single point of contact. A promise neither of them needs to say out loud.

Sam doesn’t linger, closing the door softly behind him.

My dad reaches the bed and sits on the edge. His hand finds mine.

Rough.

Warm.

Familiar.

It’s different from Sam’s.

My fingers tighten around his before I can stop them.

I try to hold it together, but I fail.

My throat tightens, and the words come out before I can catch them. “I’m scared, Daddy.”

His free hand comes up and cups the side of my face, his palm settling there like it belongs, even though it’s been years since I’ve needed him like this.

“I don’t want to do this,” I whisper, the words slipping out small and unguarded and completely true. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“Don’t,” he says immediately. “Don’t you talk like that.”

There’s no anger or denial. It’s something else. Something desperate.

His forehead presses gently to mine, his breath unsteady now, close enough that I can feel it, the way it catches and tries to even out and doesn’t quite make it.

“You hear me?” he says, softer now, but no less certain. “You don’t get to worry about me. That’s not your job.”

My fingers tighten around his.

“It’s always been my job,” I say, my voice breaking open completely now. “After Mom, it was us. We took care of each other.”