Page 31 of Wings
"Heard you moving around," he said softly, stepping inside but leaving the door cracked for light. "The storm?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice. He moved carefully—that same deliberate way from the first night, telegraphing everything. The mattress dipped as he sat on the floor beside the bed, back against the frame. Not presuming to get closer.
"Want to talk about it?"
The question unlocked something. Words spilled out between thunderclaps, jagged and raw.
"He got worse during storms. Alex. Like the noise gave him permission to be louder, meaner. Said no one would hear anyway, not over the thunder." My voice sounded strange, detached. "I learned to hide in the closet. Bunch of clothes muffled the sound, and he usually forgot to check there when he was really gone."
Gabe made a low sound, not quite a growl. His hands flexed against his thighs, and I recognized the restraint—the effort not to reach for me, not to fix what couldn't be fixed with touch.
"Once," I continued, compelled to purge the memory, "he got paranoid. Thought I was recording him, gathering evidence. Tore the whole apartment apart looking for hidden cameras. When he didn't find any, he decided I must have swallowed them. Kept trying to make me throw up, prove I hadn't eaten any 'spy devices.'"
"Jesus, Ki."
"The thunder covered the sound when I finally managed to lock myself in the bathroom. Stayed there until morning, sitting in the tub because it felt..." I swallowed hard. "Contained. Safe-ish. He passed out eventually, didn't remember any of it. Bought me flowers the next day, confused why I flinched when he tried to hug me."
Lightning illuminated Gabe's face for a second—jaw tight, eyes dark with the kind of rage that had nowhere to go. Thunder followed, and I couldn't stop the whimper that escaped.
"What would help right now?" His voice stayed steady, calm. An anchor in the storm.
I knew the answer. Had known it from the moment he'd appeared in my doorway. But asking felt impossible. Too vulnerable. Too much like admitting I needed things I wasn't supposed to need anymore.
"I don't—" Another crack of thunder stole my words. I pressed harder into my knees, making myself smaller. "I can't—"
"Ki." So patient. So gentle. "What do you need?"
The words clawed at my throat, desperate to escape but terrified of the air outside my mouth. What if he said no? What if he laughed? What if asking broke whatever fragile thing was building between us?
But then I remembered Mia's faith—Duke promises, and Duke never breaks promises. Remembered Mandy talking about Thor making space for all of her. Remembered four days of watching daddies care for their littles without judgment or conditions.
"Could you . . ." My voice came out tiny, barely audible over the rain. "Would you hold me? Just until the storm passes?"
He moved so carefully. Rising from the floor, settling on the bed with precise movements that didn't startle. He leaned against the headboard and opened his arms—an invitation, not a demand.
I crawled into them like coming home.
He was solid and warm and smelled like safety. His arms came around me, not tight but secure. Present. I fit against his chest like puzzle pieces clicking together, my ear over his heartbeat, steady and strong.
"I've got you," he murmured into my hair. "Storm can't touch you here."
Thunder crashed again, but muffled against his chest, it lost some power. His hand rubbed slow circles on my back, the rhythm hypnotic. For the first time in years, I felt truly sheltered. Not just hidden but protected.
"When I was overseas," he said quietly, "sandstorms were the worst. Not just the danger but the sound. This howling that got inside your head, made you feel like the world was ending. Lost a lot of guys to panic in those storms. Not enemy fire—just fear."
"What helped?" I asked against his shirt.
"Counting heartbeats. Focusing on something steady when everything else was chaos." His hand never stopped its slow circles. "Want to try?"
I pressed closer, finding his pulse under my ear. Started counting. One, two, three, four. Thunder rumbled but seemed distant now, less important than the steady thrum of life under my cheek.
"That's it," he murmured. "Just like that."
We stayed that way through two more lightning flashes. His presence drove the memories back, replaced them with this—safety that didn't depend on locks or hiding places but on someone choosing to stand between me and the storm.
When the thunder rolled again, farther away now, I barely flinched. Too focused on the warmth of him, the safety of being held by someone who knew broken didn't mean worthless.
"Thank you," I whispered.
