Page 168 of Break Me

I don’t try to fix it.

I just stay there with him, my hand holding onto his, my forehead resting against his like it’s the only place I know how to be.

The tree lights glow softly behind him.

We don’t say anything else.

There isn’t anything left that needs to be said.

I just stay in his arms.

His hands hold me like I’m his.

Like I always will be.

Raven

The room is quiet in a way that feels different tonight. Like the night itself has settled over everything, soft and deliberate.

The tree glows in the corner of the room exactly the way Sam wanted it. It’s tucked close enough to the bed that I can see it without turning my head. The lights create a steady warmth. I watch them for a long moment.

There’s something about tonight. Something that feels sacred. Like the world has narrowed itself down to this moment. The thin veil between what is and what comes next.

Christmas Eve.

The night everything waits for.

The night something is given.

Something that changes everything after it arrives.

My breath moves shallow in my chest, each one softer than the last. They’re not painful or strained, just lighter, like my body is already beginning to loosen its hold on something it doesn’t need anymore.

Sam’s beside me. The warmth of him pressed close. He’s the steady presence that’s been there through everything. The one thing that has never wavered, never stepped back, never let me fall without catching me first.

The sound of his voice drifts through the quiet, low and steady as he reads, the words blending together into something softer than meaning, something that wraps around me instead of asking me to follow it.

I drift in and out of it.

In and out of him.

In and out of the moment.

There are seconds when I catch a word, a sentence, something familiar enough that I almost hold onto it. Almost follow where it’s going, but it slips before I can, dissolving back into the sound of him instead of the story.

I don’t need the story. I only need him.

My fingers shift beneath his, the movement small, unintentional at first, but he feels it immediately, his voice faltering, the rhythm of it breaking as he leans closer. His hand tightens around mine like he’s been waiting for that one sign, that one moment when I come back to him.

“I’m here,” he murmurs, softer now. “I’ve got you.”

I turn my head slowly, the effort heavier than it should be, my eyes finding his through the dim glow of the tree. The light catches his features, softening the edges of him in a way that feels unreal, like I’m looking at something I need to remember but don’t have the strength to hold onto.

He looks different tonight.

Not because anything about him has changed.

But because I see it now. The way he’s holding himself together. The way he’s watching me.