EMMA'S POVThe room had never felt so quiet.
I lay against him, my cheek resting on the solid wall of his chest, listening to the rhythm of his breathing. Slow. Steady. Like the storm had passed… or maybe it was simply waiting outside the window, biding its time.
Ian hadn't said a word since the panic attack. Not a question. Not an accusation. Just silence and the occasional murmur of comfort while his fingers threaded softly through my hair, grounding me when I couldn't trust my own mind.
He'd locked the door behind us. Told no one to come near.
And yet, despite the silence… his warmth, the steadiness of his heartbeat beneath my palm, the way he hadn't let go since I collapsed in his arms—it reminded me of something. A memory hidden beneath layers of pain and time.
When we were younger, he used to hold me this way. Not out of obligation. Not out of guilt. But because it was the only place I ever felt truly safe.
A bitter smile curved my lips.
