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Adrien keeps talking, but not enough to make me follow a conversation—just little things.
“That’s it.”
“You’re safe.”
“Take your time.”
“Daddy’s right here.”
That one does something—unwinds a knot behind my sternum. My grip loosens. I don’t stop holding on, but my fingers no longer ache from how hard I’ve been clinging.
I stay curled against him as he shifts to have his back against the couch.
Eventually, the pounding in my ears fades enough that I can hear the AC running, and the quiet mechanical tick from Adrien’s prosthetic fingers when he adjusts his grip around me.
His lips touch my temple. “Better?”
I nod into his shoulder.
“Words.”
“A little.”
“Good.”
I hate that praise can make me feel warm even when my face is still wet.
Adrien lets me cling for as long as I want, saying nothing. He doesn’t demand an explanation or push me to talk about it. He just holds me.
He waits until the silence becomes something I can step into rather than something I have to hide from.
“What happened just now?” he asks after I relax some more.
“I don’t know.”
His fingers comb a loose piece of hair away from my forehead. “You do.”
I swallow. He waits, saying nothing more. I stare at the seam on his shirt collar and run my thumb over the stitching.
“Steven.”
Beneath me, Adrien goes utterly still; the hand on my back pauses for a millisecond before resuming its comforting circles.
He clears his throat and asks, “The man who put you in the hospital back then?”
I nod, my throat too tight to form words.
“What did nail polish have to do with it?”
He asks it so gently that I wish he hadn’t guessed at all. The heat behind my eyes intensifies until I have to turn my face away.
“I painted them.”
His voice drops. “Your nails?”
I nod again, my chin bumping against his chest.
“And Steven saw them?”
