Page 137 of Before Dawn

Eventually, the tears slowed, but my mind raced. I clung to the thought that Mikkel was not my past, reminding myself over and over, or my fears would consume everything good we had.

Warning

The following chapter contains heavy mentions of mental health/physical health issues. Please refer to the content warning list to be reminded of any potential triggers. Your well-being is important to me, so please take care of yourself while reading.

Chapter Thirty

Abigail-Ann

“If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you.”

~ A. A. Milne

Iwoke to the quiet sound of my own breath, tangled in the remnants of a dream I couldn’t quite grasp. But something felt different. A shift in the air. A weight I couldn’t name.

I sat up slowly, exhaling as I swung my legs over the bed. When I opened my bedroom door, my breath caught.

Mikkel.

He was slumped against the wall outside my door, fast asleep. His head tilted awkwardly to the side, his breathing uneven. The tension in his face hadn’t faded—not even in sleep. His glasses lay discarded beside him, and a furrow still creased his brow, as if whatever plagued him hadn’t let go, even now.

A sharp ache bloomed in my chest.

Before I knew it, I was kneeling beside him, fingers brushing the edge of his glasses as I picked them up.

“Hey,” I whispered. Just a breath, but it was enough.

His lashes fluttered, eyes squinting slightly as he stirred. “Sorry,” he mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep.

“You don’t have to apologize,” I murmured, gently sliding his glasses back onto his face.

His exhale was sharp, almost like relief. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, still groggy. “I’m not trying to crowd you,” he said, voice low. “I just—” He hesitated, swallowing thickly. “I couldn’t… I didn’t want to be away from you. I needed you to know… the anger wasn’t at you.”

Something inside me cracked. “I know,” I whispered. “But it scared me. It brought me back to a place I never wanted to revisit.”

His gaze softened as he reached for me, fingers barely grazing mine. Without thinking, I sat beside him, but the moment I did, he pulled his shirt over his head and laid it on the cold floor beneath me.

My throat tightened.

“Youneverhave to explain,” he murmured. His voice was so soft, so careful. “I should’veknownbetter. I should’vebeenbetter. But I’ll make it up to you, baby.”

He didn’t ask for forgiveness. Didn’t rush me. He just waited, his fingers tracing the back of my hand in light, rhythmic strokes.

“I trust you,” I whispered, the words fragile. Like glass.

His breath hitched, but his expression remained steady. “But you don’t feel safe,” he whispered. “I can see it in the way you’re sitting and how far away from me you are.”

My chest tightened. I wanted to deny it, to reach for him first, to tell him he was wrong. But I couldn’t.

He exhaled, leaning in just slightly, his breath warm against my skin. And then, before his lips could reach mine, he whispered something in Spanish—soft, reverent, almost like a prayer.

“What?”

His throat bobbed, his voice barely above a breath. “It means, sometimes I forget to breathe when I’m near you.”

A tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it. I turned away quickly, but he was already reaching for me, his thumb sweeping it away with infinite care.

“I can’t promise I’ll always be perfect.” His voice was thick with quiet devotion. “But I will always be here with you.”

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