Page 109 of The Silence Between

“They need you home, Leo.” I took one small step closer, moving slowly like I might approach a wounded animal. “Diego's been texting, asking when you'll be back.”

His eyes shifted from the water to some middle distance, still not quite seeing me.

“I know today has been impossible,” I continued, taking another cautious step. “Miguel ambushing you with court papers. Your mom in the hospital. The hearing scheduled during an emergency. No one should have to face all that alone.”

Another tiny step. I could almost reach him now, but I kept my hands at my sides, afraid any sudden movement would break this tenuous connection.

“I'm sorry I wasn't there when you called. I'm so fucking sorry, Leo. But I'm here now.”

He blinked slowly, and for the first time, his eyes seemed to actually see me. “Ethan?” His voice was a whisper, rough as though he hadn't spoken in hours.

“Yeah, it's me.” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Can you come back over the railing? So we can talk?”

He looked down at the water again, then back at me. “I don't know if I can do this anymore.”

The quiet resignation in his voice terrified me more than any shouting or tears would have. This wasn't an impulsive moment of despair. This was something deeper—the final surrender of someone who'd been fighting too many battles for too long.

“Do what, Leo?”

“Everything.” He gestured vaguely with one hand, the movement making him sway dangerously. “Keep trying. Keep fighting. Keep pretending I can handle it all.”

I took a final step closer, close enough now that I could reach out and touch him, though I didn't. Not yet.

“You don't have to handle it all. Not alone.” I extended my hand, palm up, into the space between us. “I can't do this alone either, Leo. Any of it. I need you.”

His eyes flickered to my outstretched hand, then to my face. The emptiness in his expression was gradually filling with something else—confusion, awareness, pain. Coming back to himself meant returning to the weight of everything he carried, but it also meant reconnecting with what anchored him to this world.

“The kids,” he murmured.

“They're safe. At school. But they need you, Leo. I need you.”

His hand slowly lifted from the railing. For an eternal second, it hovered in the space between us, and then, with deliberate purpose, he reached for me.

I grasped his hand like a lifeline, forcing myself not to pull too quickly, not to startle him with sudden movement. His palm was ice cold against mine, his fingers stiff from gripping the railing.

“That's it,” I murmured. “Just hold onto me. I've got you.”

With excruciating slowness, I guided him back over the safety barrier, my other hand bracing his elbow, then his shoulder, offering support without forcing movement. When both his feet finally touched the safe side of the railing, his knees buckled.

We collapsed together onto the concrete, my arms wrapped around him, his body shaking violently against mine. I held him as tightly as I dared, my own limbs trembling with the aftermath of adrenaline and terror.

“I've got you,” I whispered against his hair, feeling tears burning in my eyes. “I've got you.”

For several minutes, we just sat there, holding each other as the wind whipped around us and the river rushed below. I could feel his heartbeat gradually slowing from its frantic pace, his breathing steadying somewhat though occasional shudders still ran through him.

“I need to take you to the hospital,” I said finally, pulling back just enough to see his face.

“My mom?—“

“Not for your mom. For you.” I touched his cheek gently, forcing him to meet my eyes. “You need help, Leo. Professional help.”

He started to shake his head, that familiar stubborn resistance surfacing even now. “The kids?—“

“The kids need you alive and well, not barely hanging on until the next crisis breaks you completely.” I kept my voice gentle but firm. “You've spent ten years making sure everyone else survived. Now it's about making sure you do.”

Something shifted in his expression—resignation, perhaps, or recognition. He looked utterly exhausted, the kind of bone-deep weariness that comes from fighting not just today's battles, but years of them without rest.

“Okay,” he whispered, the single word seeming to take all his remaining strength.

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