Page 32 of Stalk Me

"No." The answer comes automatically, a reflex born of years of keeping secrets. But then, softer: "Yes. Maybe. I don't know."

"Okay." He settles back against the headboard, his presence steady and grounding. "Then we can just sit here. Sometimes that's enough."

And in a way, it is. While the storm outside keeps raging, we sit back and enjoy the peace and quiet. On the screen, Tony Stark builds his first suit. Erik doesn't try to make things better by saying empty words or giving false comfort. He's just there with me, a safe place to be during the storm, without trying to save me. I keep my walls up and my armor on, but I'm going to enjoy the moment of peace at least for now. Let myself think that we could stay together forever, just two hurt souls looking for safety.

"The parties," I say suddenly, the words escaping before I can catch them. "When I was younger, there were always storms. Thunder covering the sounds, lightning hiding the shadows. My father said it was perfect timing—nature providing cover for man's darkest impulses."

Erik goes very still beside me, but his voice remains gentle when he speaks. "Luna, you don't have to?—"

"I know." I clench my fists, nails biting into my palms. "But sometimes I think if I don't say it out loud, it'll eat me alive. All these secrets, all these shadows… they're suffocating me."

He reaches out slowly, telegraphing his movements, and covers my hand with his. His palm is warm against my cold fingers, anchoring me to the present. "Then tell me. Whatever you can, whatever you need to say. I'm here."

The storm is the background for my confessions, which are little bits of truth that are strewn around like broken glass between thunderclaps. I don't tell him everything. I can't. I tell him just enough to feel better. I don't tell him about the abuse, but I tell him about my father's intimidation. I don't mention I'm forced to take drugs, but I acknowledge I'm haunted by constant fear. He never shows sympathy or anger, and he never interrupts or demands answers. He does nothing but sit there like a rock for me to lean on and hide behind while the storm rages around us.

Erik listens without judgment, his hand steady on mine. When I finally fall silent, emotionally exhausted, he doesn't offer platitudes or empty promises. Instead, he simply says, "Thank you for trusting me with pieces of you."

"I don't trust anyone," I whisper, but we both know it's a lie. Because I did trust him. With the thing that scares me most—the partial truths of my secrets, the cracks in my armor. The pieces no one but me has ever seen.

"I know." His thumb traces circles on my palm, the touch featherlight. "But you're still here."

"I'm afraid they'll know that I told you," I whisper, the confession raw. "They know everything. They're watching."

"You can't let fear control you." His hand finds mine, warm and reassuring. "I won't tell anyone."

"You don't need to," I counter softly. "They know either way."

The words fall between us, fragile and heavy. Both of us know just how small a chance there is of remaining anonymous. They are connected. Watching. Never slipping up.

"I'm here," he says simply, his arm brushing against mine.

These two words say more than any promise ever could. We have this moment, this room set aside for us away from everyone else, no matter what comes next. Outside, the storm keeps going, and the lightning colors the room bright blue every so often.

Still sitting close together, we watch the lightning as it makes moving shadows on the walls. The movie keeps playing in the background, somewhat forgotten. Erik being here with me is like a chain that keeps me from falling too far into the darkness of my memories. I feel almost safe for the first time since coming home from that terrible party. Almost at peace. A thin veneer of armor between myself and a broken past, keeping the trauma at bay for now. The future is uncertain, a swirl of endless dangers, but we're still here. Still together. And maybe that's enough.

Maybe that's everything.

When he shifts slightly, I think he's going to leave. Instead, he adjusts his position so we're facing each other, those storm-gray eyes serious in the dim light. "Luna," he says softly. "Whatever happened at those parties, whatever they made you do—it wasn't your fault."

"You don't know that." My voice cracks. "You don't know what I've done, what I'm capable of?—"

"I know you." He cups my face with gentle hands, and for a moment, I let myself lean into the touch. "I see you, Luna. Not the mask you wear or the puppet they tried to make you into. You."

The sweetness in his voice breaks my heart. I've been holding back tears as much as I could, but now they're running down my face, hot and silent. When Erik pulls me into his arms, I let him. I bury my face in his chest and start to cry. With soft words of comfort that I can't quite make out, he holds me through the storm—both the one outside and the one inside me. There are no absolutions, no declarations of love, or promises that it will get better. Just his strong arms wrapped around my shaking body and his heartbeat steady beneath my ear.

My mind knows that this brief moment of vulnerability won't solve all my problems, but my heart rebels at the thought of going back to the way things were. So I cling to the feeling of safety Erik gives me, desperate and needy like a drowning woman finally breaking the surface. Let myself go in his presence, letting the familiarity of his warmth wash over me. I don't belong to anyone except myself, not anymore, but maybe, just maybe, I can borrow a piece of his strength. For tonight, I might allow him to protect me from my own bad memories.

When I finally pull back, embarrassed by my display of weakness, Erik doesn't let me retreat completely. He keeps one arm around me, providing warmth and support without a cage. His shirt is wet from my tears, but he doesn't seem to notice. Or care. "It's okay," he whispers. "You can break a little. I'm here."

And I do—crack right down the middle and continue to cry on his chest. For what I lost and the innocence I don't think I ever really had. For the powerlessness I can't bear to confront. Weakness will get me killed someday, but tonight, Erik's strength is enough to hold me together.

My face is wet with tears, my chest heaving with shuddering sobs. Vulnerable and raw, a wounded animal in the flickering blue light from the laptop. But this isn't a weakness—no, it's a decision made through blurred vision and warring emotions. I still won't lay my burdens on Erik's shoulders; I refuse to let him feel the blame that consumes me every night. But he said he's here for me, and I choose to accept that.

When I finally stop crying, there are no traces of pity in his gaze, just an emotion I can't quite put a name to. Gently, slowly, Erik shifts so that his back rests against the wall. For a moment, I think he's going to let go, and some aching part of my heart screams at the thought of being alone again. I'm desperate enough to reach for him, to show him I need him in the only way I know how—by kissing him.

Before our lips touch, Erik pulls away slightly. Disappointment threatens to overwhelm me before his deep, genuine tone cuts through the fog of desire.

"Not like this," he says, cupping my face in his hands. "If—when—we kiss, I want it to be because you want me, not because you want to punish yourself."

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