No Place to Put It Down
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 10, 448
Summary: After a careless comment at a bar turns into something you can’t stop hearing, Jack finds you in the aftermath — not to fix it, not to make you love your body in one night, but to stay with you while you can’t.
Warnings: Body image issues, weight gain insecurity, body shame, public humiliation, cruel comment about weight/body, panic attack/body panic, crying, emotional distress, mentions of wanting to “crawl out” of your body in a non-self-harm/body-panic context, intimacy insecurity, fear of being seen/naked, references to Jack’s amputation/body grief, hurt/comfort, established relationship, soft Jack.
Author’s Note: This was a request, but it became deeply personal to me as I wrote it. This is not a self-love fix-it fic. It’s not about hearing “you’re beautiful” once and suddenly believing it. It’s about those moments where your own body feels impossible to live in, where the mirror feels cruel, where someone says the wrong thing and it confirms every awful thought you were already trying to survive. This one is for everyone who has ever felt that way. For everyone who has wanted out of the feeling. For everyone who has cried in a bathroom, turned away from a mirror, changed clothes five times, or felt like their body was something they had to apologize for.
I see you. I hear you. I feel you.
I know.
Jack does not fix it. He does not make it pretty. He just refuses to let her be alone in it.
Please take care of yourselves while reading. If you need someone to talk to, please message me.
Xoxo, Del
You tried on the first outfit because it used to work. That was the problem with it. The fabric was familiar in your hands. Soft from too many washes, worn in at the seams, something you had reached for a dozen times before without thinking. It had been safe once. Easy. The kind of thing you could put on, glance in the mirror, and leave the house without negotiating with yourself first. Now, standing in front of your bedroom mirror after a full shift at PTMC, you looked at yourself and felt your stomach drop.
It didn’t fit the way you remembered.
Not badly, maybe. Not in a way anyone else would look at and immediately understand why your throat tightened or why your hands went cold at your sides.
But you knew.
You knew because you lived in your body. You knew the way it had changed. You knew the places that felt softer now, the places that pressed differently against fabric, the places your eyes went first, no matter how hard you tried to look somewhere else. You turned slightly, then wished you hadn’t.
“Nope,” you whispered.
You peeled the outfit off before you could think about it too long and tossed it onto the bed. The second one made your arms feel too visible. The third pulled wrong at your middle. The fourth was black, because black was supposed to be merciful, but all it did was make you feel like you were trying too hard to disappear. By the time your phone buzzed on the dresser, your bed was covered in clothes, and your chest felt tight with the kind of panic that seemed ridiculous until you were standing inside it. You glanced at the screen.
Jack: Awake.
Despite everything, your mouth twitched. A second message appeared.
Jack: That feels generous. Conscious.
Jack worked nights, which meant his day had started sometime around late afternoon, after a few hours of sleep and the kind of silence most people only associated with illness or grief. He had been asleep while you finished your shift, while you drove home, while you stood in front of your closet and tried to become someone who could go out for drinks. You sat on the edge of the bed, half-dressed and exhausted in a way sleep would not fix.
You: Congratulations.
Jack: Thank you. It was difficult.
That pulled a small breath of laughter out of you. Not enough, but something.
Jack: Shower. Coffee. Then I’ll head out.
You looked down at the pile of clothes on the bed. Then back at the mirror. For half a second, you thought about canceling. It would be easy. Too easy. You could say you were tired. You could say work drained you. You could say you had a headache, which wasn’t technically a lie, because your whole body felt like one by now. You could crawl into bed in old sweatpants, turn the lights off, and not have to be looked at by anyone. Not by your friends. Not by strangers.
Not by Jack.
Another text came through.
Jack: You still going?
Your thumb hovered over the screen. You looked back at the mirror. The woman staring back at you looked tired and uncertain and wrong in a way you didn’t know how to explain without sounding cruel. You hated that. You hated that your first instinct was cruelty. You hated that your body had become something you monitored instead of lived in. You hated that getting dressed for drinks with people who loved you had turned into standing half-naked in your bedroom trying to figure out which version of yourself would be the least embarrassing to bring outside. You swallowed hard and typed back.
You: Yeah. I’ll meet you there.
Jack answered almost immediately.
Jack: Save me a seat?
Your throat tightened for no reason.
You: Always.
Jack: Good.
A beat passed.
Jack: I like knowing where to find you.
You stopped, just for a second. The words sat there on the screen, simple and easy, and Jack in that quiet way he had. Not overly sweet. Not theatrical. Just sincere enough to find the places in you that were already bruised. I like knowing where to find you. You looked at yourself in the mirror again.
Your eyes went first to your stomach. Then your hips. Then the roundness of your face. Then the way your body took up space in the cardigan you had pulled on like a shield. The sweetness did not land where it was supposed to. It should have made you warm. It should have made you smile. It should have made you feel wanted, or at least remembered. Instead, it made your chest ache. Because Jack loved you. Jack wanted you. Jack touched you like he meant it. And lately, all you could think about when he did was whether he noticed.
Whether his hands felt the difference.
Whether he remembered the way your body used to be before it changed into something you could barely stand to look at.
You locked your phone and set it facedown. “No,” you told yourself quietly.
You were not doing this. Not tonight. You were not going to stand here and ruin the whole night before it even started. You were not going to make Jack’s kindness into something painful. You were not going to text Santos and cancel. You were not going to let one mirror decide whether you deserved to exist in public. You grabbed the fifth outfit. Jeans that fit, technically. A top that didn’t cling too much, if you adjusted it right. A cardigan you could keep on if you needed something between your body and the room. You got dressed slowly. The jeans buttoned, but you hated how aware you were of them. The waistband sat against your skin like a reminder. You tugged the top down, then hated yourself for tugging. You pulled the cardigan over your shoulders and faced the mirror again.
It was fine.
That was the word you landed on. Not beautiful. Beautiful felt too ambitious. Beautiful felt like something that belonged to a version of you who did not have to stand in front of a mirror and bargain with her own reflection. Fine, you could manage. Fine could leave the house. Fine could sit at a table. Fine could laugh at Robby’s dry comments and let Santos steal fries and listen to Dana talk about whatever chaos had happened on shift after you left.
Fine could wait for Jack.
You leaned closer to the mirror and fixed your earrings with fingers that were only a little unsteady. Then you stopped at the doorway. One more look. You hated that you needed it. You hated that you took it anyway. The mirror gave you nothing new. Same body. Same outfit. Same sharp, sinking disappointment. You adjusted the cardigan again, then forced your hand to drop.
Fine. Fine was enough.
You turned off the bedroom light before you could change your mind and left the apartment.
By the time you got to the bar, Santos had already claimed a booth near the back. You spotted her first because she was waving one hand over her head as if trying to direct aircraft into the room. Dana sat beside her, leaned back with a drink in her hand, while Mel was angled toward Robby, both of them listening to him tell some story with the grim resignation of a man who knew he was funny and hated that people kept finding out.
Santos saw you and lit up. “There she is,” Santos called.
You smiled before you could think too hard about whether anyone was looking at you.
“Hi,” you said, sliding into the empty space beside her.
Santos immediately bumped her shoulder into yours. “I was two minutes away from sending a search party.”
“I was changing,” you said.
Dana looked over the rim of her glass. “That sounds ominous.”
“It was,” you said lightly.
Mel’s expression softened just enough that you had to look away. She was too good at catching the things people tried to fold into jokes.
Santos leaned toward you. “You want a drink?”
“In a minute,” you said.
Robby glanced toward the door. “Abbot coming?”
“Once he finishes rejoining the living,” you said.
Dana smiled. “Night shift really does make people dramatic.”
Robby shook his head. “It’s Jack. He was dramatic before the sleep deprivation.”
You huffed a laugh, and for a second, it was easy. Not perfect. Not comfortable all the way down. But easier. The bar was loud enough to blur the edges of your thoughts. Warm light, sticky tables, music from somewhere overhead, people pressed close enough that no one had the space to stare too long. Santos was talking with her hands. Dana was telling Mel about a family member who had tried to bribe her with banana bread. Robby was pretending not to enjoy himself and failing. You could do this. You could sit here. You could keep your cardigan on. You could let your body be present without making it the center of the room.
Fine. Fine was working. Mostly.
Santos leaned closer under the noise. “You okay?”
You looked at her quickly. “Yeah.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“I’m fine,” you said, because that was better. Cleaner. It would be more convincing if you said it before she asked again.
Santos didn’t push.
That was when Kyle slid into the empty chair at the end of the table. He was one of the X-ray techs, the kind of coworker everyone knew well enough to say hi to and not well enough to invite into anything intimate. He worked with half the ED, flirted with anything that answered him, and had a talent for talking like every room had been waiting for his commentary.
“Look at this,” Kyle said, already holding up his phone. “Found some ancient PTMC lore.”
Robby’s eyes cut toward him. “Why do I already hate this?”
Kyle turned the screen toward the table. It was an old photo from a night out a year or so before. Dana and Santos were in it, both holding drinks. Robby was in the background, looking irritated about being photographed. You were near the edge of the frame, laughing at something off-camera, one hand raised as if you were trying to block the picture but had failed. Your stomach dropped before anyone said anything. You remembered that night. You remembered that outfit. You remembered not thinking about your body every five seconds.
“Oh my god,” Santos said, leaning in. “That was after the power outage shift.”
Dana laughed. “I forgot about that night.”
You tried to smile back. Tried.
Kyle looked from the photo to you. Then he grinned.
“Damn,” Kyle said, loud enough for the table to hear. “Jack’s been feeding you good, huh?”
The noise of the bar did not stop. That was the worst part. Music kept playing. Glasses kept clinking. Someone laughed too loudly near the dartboards. The world kept moving like Kyle had not just reached across the table and put his hand around your throat.
But the table went quiet.
Not dramatically. Not all at once.
Just enough.
Santos stopped reaching for her drink. Dana’s smile fell. Robby looked at Kyle without blinking. Mel’s eyes moved to you, careful and quick. No one laughed.
Kyle’s grin faltered. “What?” he asked, glancing around the table. Kyle shifted in his chair. “I was joking.”
Robby’s expression did not change. “Yeah. Don’t.”
Santos stared at Kyle. “Seriously, man?”
Kyle looked uncomfortable now, his phone lowering an inch. “Okay, Jesus. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
You were already smiling. You could feel it happening, the automatic shape of it. Too quick. Too bright. A social reflex your body performed before the rest of you could catch up.
“No, it’s fine,” you said.
The laugh came next. Small. Wrong. Not even close to real. Everyone looked at you then, and somehow that was worse.
Jack’s been feeding you good, huh?
The words landed again, even though Kyle had stopped talking.
You waved one hand like you could clear the whole thing out of the air. “Seriously, it’s fine.”
Santos said your name quietly.
Your smile stretched harder. “I’m just gonna use the bathroom.”
Mel shifted like she might stand. “Do you want me to—”
“No, I’m good,” you said quickly. “I’ll be right back.”
Your voice sounded strange. Thin. Like it belonged to someone standing farther away. Robby’s eyes were still on Kyle. Dana looked like she wanted to say something else. Santos looked like she already knew you were lying. You could not stay there another second. Not with Kyle’s phone still in his hand. Not with the old photo still glowing on the screen. Not with everyone trying so hard not to look at your body that you could feel them thinking about it. Not with Jack’s name hanging in the air like that.
Jack’s been feeding you good, huh?
You turned before anyone could touch you. Behind you, Kyle cleared his throat.
“Anyway,” Kyle said awkwardly. “I’m gonna grab another drink.”
No one answered him. No one made room for him to recover the joke. No one gave him a way back in. You did not turn around to see him leave.
The walk to the bathroom felt too long and too short at the same time. Your body moved on instinct, through the noise, past the bar, down the narrow hallway where the light turned colder and less forgiving. You made it inside. Locked the single bathroom door. Then you saw yourself in the mirror. For a second, all you did was stare.
Your cardigan. Your top. Your face. Your body under fabric that had been fine ten minutes ago and now felt like evidence.
Your breathing went shallow.
Jack’s been feeding you good, huh?
The words came back in Kyle’s voice. Casual. Grinning.
Like he had not ruined anything.
Your hand flew to your mouth.
The first sob tore out of you before you could stop it. It did not sound like crying at first. It sounded like something breaking. Something deep and ugly ripping itself loose from your lungs, too sharp to swallow back down, too big to hide behind your hand. Your knees weakened. You turned away from the mirror, but it didn’t help. You could still feel yourself. The waistband of your jeans. The cling of your shirt. The heat in your face. The body you had brought into the room, and could not set down, no matter how badly you wanted to.
Another sob came, harder than the first. It bent you forward. It hurt.
God, it hurt.
Not like embarrassment. Not like a bad comment. Not like the quick sting of someone saying something thoughtless.
It hurt like grief.
Like your heart had cracked somewhere no one could see, and your body was trying to force the sound of it out through your chest. Someone knocked. You froze.
“Hey,” Mel said through the door, softer than you expected. “It’s me.”
You pressed your hand harder against your mouth and tried to breathe quietly.
“I’m fine,” you said.
There was a pause.
“No, you’re not,” Mel said gently.
The gentleness in her voice made it worse.
Your breath hitched once, then again.
“Mel, please,” you whispered.
“I’m not coming in,” she promised. “I just need you to talk to me.”
“I can’t,” you whispered.
Your chest tightened around the words. You tried to breathe in, but the air would not go all the way down. It caught somewhere high and sharp, turning thin before it reached your lungs. You pressed your palm to your sternum like you could force your body to remember how to do this one simple thing.
In. Out. In.
It would not work.
The mirror was still there. Even with your back to it, it was still there.
“I can’t breathe,” you said, and the words came out broken.
Mel’s voice changed immediately. Not louder. Steadier.
“Okay,” she said through the door. “Okay, listen to me. You’re safe. You’re in the bathroom. The door is locked. I’m right outside.”
You shook your head even though she couldn’t see you. “I can’t go back out there,” you said.
“You don’t have to,” Mel said.
“I can’t have everyone look at me,” you said.
“I know,” Mel replied.
Your breath shuddered hard. “I can’t—” You pressed your hand over your mouth again, but another sob forced its way through. “I can’t.”
“I know,” Mel said again, and this time her voice cracked at the edges. “I know. Just breathe with me, okay?”
You squeezed your eyes shut. She inhaled slowly on the other side of the door, loud enough for you to hear. “In,” she said.
You tried. It scraped.
“Good,” Mel said anyway. “Out.”
Your exhale broke in the middle.
“That’s okay,” she said. “Again.”
You followed her voice because there was nothing else to hold onto.
In. Out. Again. Again.
The panic did not leave. Not really. It only loosened enough for you to speak.
“Please don’t make it a thing,” you whispered.
Mel was quiet for a moment.
“Okay,” she said carefully. “I won’t make it a thing.”
Another pause passed.
“But I’m not going to pretend it was nothing,” Mel added.
Your face crumpled again. A fresh sound broke out of you, smaller this time but no less awful. You pressed your knuckles to your mouth, trying to hold yourself together by force. Your phone lit up in your hand.
Jack: Heading out soon.
Your chest folded in on itself. “Oh god,” you whispered.
Mel shifted on the other side of the door. “What?”
“It’s Jack,” you said.
Silence. You stared at his name until it blurred.
“He’s on his way,” you said, your voice breaking. “What do I tell him?”
Mel did not answer too quickly. You loved her for that. Hated it too.
“You don’t have to tell him anything yet,” she said. “Not if you don’t want to.”
Your breath hitched.
“He’s going to get here, and I’m not going to be there,” you said.
“I know,” Mel said.
“He’s going to ask where I am,” you said.
“I know,” She repeated.
You squeezed your eyes shut so hard it hurt. The thought of Jack walking in, looking for you, hearing what happened, seeing everyone know that you were the girl who got humiliated and cried in the bathroom—
No. No, no, no.
You could not survive that. “Tell Jack I got sick,” you said.
Mel was quiet.
“Tell him I went home,” you said, swallowing against the lump in your throat. Your fingers tightened around your phone. “Tell Jack,” you said.
Mel exhaled, and it sounded like it cost her something.
“Okay,” She said.
“Please,” you whispered.
“I will,” Mel promised. “But text me when you’re in the car.”
“I will,” you said.
“And when you get home,” she added.
“I will,” you said.
“I mean it,” Mel said.
Your mouth trembled. “I know.”
For another few seconds, neither of you moved.
“I’m going to step back,” Mel said quietly. “When you’re ready, open the door. Just me, okay?”
You nodded, even though she couldn’t see. It took another minute before you could make yourself move. When you unlocked the bathroom door, Mel stood in the hallway with her arms folded tightly over her chest, eyes sharp and wet. Her face softened the second she saw you. You looked down before she could say anything.
“I’m okay,” you said.
“No,” she said gently. “But you’re leaving.”
You nodded once.
Mel stepped closer slowly, giving you every chance to move away. When you didn’t, she lifted both hands and cupped your face with a tenderness that almost undid you all over again. Her thumbs rested lightly near your cheeks, nowhere near the tears, like she was afraid to wipe them away without permission.
“Look at me,” Mel said.
You forced your eyes up.
Her expression was fierce and heartbroken.
“You didn’t deserve that,” she said. “Not one word of it.”
Your face crumpled.
Mel held you there lightly, not trapping you, just keeping you from disappearing for one second longer.
“Okay?” Mel asked.
You nodded because you could not speak.
Mel’s jaw tightened.
“Good,” she said.
Then she let go and stepped back, shielding you from the view of the main bar without making it obvious.
“I’ll cover,” Mel said.
Your throat burned. “Thank you,” you said.
“Text me,” she said.
“I will,” you said.
You left through the side door before anyone else could see you. Outside, the air was cool enough to make your wet face sting. You got into the Uber, gave the driver your address, and stared out the window as the bar slipped away behind you. The lights smeared across the glass.
Jack’s been feeding you good, huh?
You shut your eyes.
It was worse in the quiet. At the bar, the words had somewhere to go. Noise. Music. Other voices. Here, they had nothing to bounce off but you. Your phone buzzed again.
Jack: On my way. Save me a seat?
You stared at the message until the words blurred. Then you turned the screen facedown in your lap and cried the whole way home.
Mel stayed in the hallway until she heard the side door close behind you. Then she took one breath, wiped under one eye with the heel of her hand, and walked back to the booth. No one was laughing when she got there. The whole table had gone stiff and quiet, the kind of quiet that made the bar around them sound even louder.
Robby noticed her first. “Where is she?” Robby asked, sitting forward.
Mel slid into the booth, phone gripped tightly in one hand. “She went home.”
Dana’s face fell. “Alone?”
“She called an Uber,” Mel said.
Santo’s mouth tightened. “Is she okay?”
Mel looked at her. No one said anything for a second.
“No,” Mel said, shaking her head once.
Dana rubbed a hand over her mouth. “God.”
Robby looked toward the bar, where Kyle had disappeared into the crowd. “He gone?”
Dana glanced that way. “I think so.”
Santos’s jaw tightened. “Good.”
Mel looked toward the hallway. “She laughed.”
Santos nodded, jaw tight. “I know.”
“She laughed like it didn’t hurt,” Mel said quietly.
Robby looked down at the table. “Yeah,” Robby said.
That was all he said; somehow, that made it worse.
Mel’s phone buzzed. Everyone went still. She looked down.
You: In the Uber.
“She’s in the car,” Mel said, closing her eyes for half a second.
Dana exhaled. Another text came through.
You: Please tell him I got sick. Please don’t make it a thing.
Mel stared at the message.
“What?” Santos asked, watching Mel’s face.
“She wants me to tell Jack she got sick,” Mel said.
Dana’s expression crumpled. “Oh, honey.”
Robby looked toward the entrance. “Jack’s on his way?”
Mel nodded.
“He’s going to know,” Robby said.
“I know,” Mel said.
She looked down at the message again, then typed back.
Mel: Text me when you’re home.
Your reply came quickly.
You: I will.
The table stayed quiet after that. Not peaceful. Just quiet. The minutes stretched. Dana kept her arms crossed over her chest. Santos stared into her drink. Robby watched the door, his face set hard. Mel kept checking her phone every few seconds. When it buzzed again, she nearly dropped it.
You: Home.
“She’s home,” Mel said, letting out a breath.
Dana nodded, eyes glossy. “Good.”
Mel started typing back when the door opened. Jack stepped inside with his jacket in one hand, hair still a little damp from the shower, his body carrying the quiet tiredness of someone who should probably still be asleep. He looked for you first. His eyes moved over the room, found the booth, found Robby, Dana, Mel, and Santos. Then your empty chair. Jack stopped. The change in him was small, but everyone at the table felt it. He crossed to them slowly.
“Where is she?” Jack asked.
Mel’s fingers tightened around her phone. “She went home.”
Jack’s face shifted immediately. “What? Why?”
Mel swallowed. “She got sick.”
Jack looked at her for half a second. “She got sick?” Jack asked.
Mel nodded once. “Yeah.”
His concern came fast, clean, and immediate. “Is she okay? What happened?”
No one answered quickly enough. That was the problem. Dana looked down. Santos’s mouth tightened. Robby’s jaw flexed. Mel looked at her phone.
Jack went still. His eyes moved from one face to the next.
“What really happened?” Jack asked.
“Jack,” Dana said softly.
His gaze cut to her. “What happened?”
Robby leaned back slightly, jaw tight. “Kyle made a comment.”
Jack’s expression changed.
“What kind of comment?” Jack asked.
Dana did not answer. Mel looked away.
Jack’s voice dropped. “About what?”
No one said anything. His face hardened by degrees.
“About her?” Jack asked.
Santos swallowed.
“About her body,” Santos said.
Jack did not move. For one second, he looked like he had not understood the words. Then his jaw shifted.
“What comment?” Jack asked.
Santos looked pained.
Jack’s eyes stayed on her. “Santos.”
She hated repeating it. Hated every word. But Jack needed to know.
“Kyle said, ‘Damn, Jack’s been feeding you good, huh?’” Santos said.
Jack stared at her. For one second, there was nothing on his face.
Then—
“What the fuck?” Jack said, low and stunned.
Dana flinched. Jack looked around the table like he needed someone to tell him he had heard wrong. No one did.
“Are you fucking serious?” Jack asked, voice sharpening.
Mel nodded once.
Jack’s hand flexed at his side. The anger was immediate. Red-hot. Barely contained.
“Where is he?” Jack asked.
Robby’s voice stayed even. “He left.”
Jack’s jaw worked.
Robby watched him carefully. “He knew it didn’t land.”
Jack let out a humorless breath. “Good for him.”
For a second, no one spoke.
Mel watched him, careful and worried. “She asked me to tell you she got sick.”
Jack’s face shifted. The anger did not go away. It folded inward.
“She was crying so hard she could barely breathe,” Mel said quietly.
Jack closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them, he looked more hurt than angry.
“She shouldn’t be alone,” Jack said.
“No,” Mel said. “She shouldn’t.”
Jack looked down at his phone and started typing.
Robby’s voice stayed low. “Take a minute before you go over there.”
Jack did not look up from his phone. “I’m texting her first.”
That made Mel’s face soften slightly.
Jack typed for another few seconds, then stared down at the message before sending it.
Jack: I know what happened.
He paused, typed again.
Jack: I’m sorry he said that to you.
Jack stopped, jaw tight, then typed again.
Jack: I want to come over.
Another pause.
Jack: You don’t have to talk about it. You don’t have to explain anything.
Then he typed what he wanted to say the most right now.
Jack: I just don’t want you alone right now.
Jack sent the messages and waited. The whole table stayed silent. A few seconds later, his phone lit up. Jack read it.
“What did she say?” Robby asked.
Jack swallowed.
“She said she doesn’t know,” Jack said.
Mel exhaled.
“That’s not no,” Mel said.
Jack looked at her for one long second. Then he put on his jacket and turned toward the door.
“Abbot,” Mel said.
He stopped.
Mel hesitated, then said, “Be careful with her.”
Jack looked back. His face was still angry. Still hurt. But his voice was steady when he answered.
“I will,” Jack said.
Then he left.
You made it home because your body knew how to do that, apparently.
Even when the rest of you had gone somewhere unreachable, you got out of the Uber. You thanked the driver because manners lived somewhere deeper than humiliation. You walked up the stairs to your apartment with your purse clutched too tightly in one hand and your phone in the other. Your fingers shook when you unlocked the door.
Inside, everything was exactly how you had left it.
The lamp by the couch was still on. Your work shoes were still kicked near the entryway from when you had come home after your shift. The clothes you had rejected before leaving were still scattered across your bed like evidence of a trial you had already lost. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. You closed the door behind you and locked it. For a second, you just stood there. Then you pulled out your phone and typed.
You: Home.
You stared at the message until the letters stopped swimming.
Her reply came almost immediately.
Mel: Okay. Thank you for telling me.
Another bubble appeared.
Mel: Do you want me to call you?
Your throat tightened. You could still hear her through the bathroom door. You didn’t deserve that. You squeezed your eyes shut and typed with one thumb.
You: No. I’m okay.
A lie. A big one. The kind people told when they had already taken up too much space. You locked your phone and dropped it onto the couch. You needed to change. That was the only thought your brain could hold onto. You needed to get out of the clothes. Out of the cardigan. Out of the top. Out of the jeans with the waistband that felt like it had been pressing Kyle’s words into your skin the entire ride home.
You made it to your bedroom. Then you saw the mirror. You stopped so suddenly, your breath caught. There you were.
Still.
That was the first terrible thing your brain understood.
You had left the bar. You had left the table. You had left Kyle’s stupid, careless mouth and the old photo glowing on his phone. You had left the bathroom with Mel standing guard in the hallway. You had left through the side door before anyone else could look at you.
And you were still there.
Your body had come home with you.
The thought hit wrong.
Hard.
Your breath went thin.
“No,” you whispered, but there was no one there to hear it.
The mirror did not care.
It gave you back everything you did not want to see. The cardigan you had chosen because it hid enough. The top you had tugged down so many times it had lost its shape. The jeans that technically fit.
Jack’s been feeding you good, huh?
Your face, blotchy from crying.
Your body, under all of it. Your body, still yours. Your hand went to your stomach before you could stop it, and the second you realized what you were doing, you yanked it away like you had touched something hot.
A sound broke out of you.
Small at first.
Then not.
It ripped up from somewhere deep in your chest, rough and ugly and too big for your throat. You bent forward with it, one hand braced on the edge of the dresser, the other pressed over your mouth like you could force the sound back in.
You couldn’t.
Another sob came. Harder. It tore through you until your ribs ached. This was not crying the way people cried in movies. This was not pretty. This was not a tear sliding quietly down your cheek while you stared out a window. This was your body trying to throw pain out of itself and failing because the pain lived there, too. You dragged in a breath. It did not go far enough. You tried again. It caught high in your chest, sharp and useless.
“No, no, no,” you whispered.
The room tilted slightly. You sat down hard on the edge of the bed, but sitting did not help. Nothing helped. Not the distance from the bar. Not the locked door. Not the quiet. Not being alone. Especially not being alone. Because alone meant there was nothing between you and the thought. The awful thought. The one that came so fast it scared you.
Not that you wanted to hurt yourself.
Not that.
Never that.
But for one breathless, horrifying second, if someone had offered you a way to crawl out of your own body and leave it behind on the bedroom floor, you thought you might have taken it. Not because you wanted pain. Because you wanted the pain to stop.
Because you wanted silence.
Because you wanted one second where you did not have to feel the waistband against your skin, or the shape of yourself under your clothes, or the memory of everyone seeing what you had been trying so hard to hide.
The realization terrified you. Your hands curled into fists against your thighs.
“I can’t,” you said, and your voice cracked down the middle. “I can’t do this.”
You wanted out. Not out of the clothes. Not out of the room.
Out.
Out of being aware of yourself. Out of the softness. Out of the shape. Out of the body that had followed you home because it was yours, and there was nowhere you could put it down. Your breathing broke again. Short. Too fast. You pressed both palms to your chest, trying to hold yourself together from the outside.
In. Out.
You could hear Mel saying it through the bathroom door.
In. Out.
But Mel was not here now.
No one was.
Your phone buzzed. You flinched. For a few seconds, you could not make yourself move. The phone buzzed again. Then again. Jack. You knew it before you picked it up. Your legs felt weak when you crossed the room. You grabbed the phone off the couch and saw his name.
Jack: I know what happened.
Your throat closed. The room went still around you.
Jack: I’m sorry he said that to you.
You covered your mouth.
Jack’s been feeding you good, huh?
The thought landed right on top of his name, and that made it worse.
Another message appeared.
Jack: I want to come over.
The tears blurred the screen.
Jack: You don’t have to talk about it. You don’t have to explain anything.
A final message came through.
Jack: I just don’t want you alone right now.
The sob that followed was quieter. Somehow worse. You sank onto the couch, phone clutched in both hands. You wanted him.
God, you wanted him.
You wanted his voice. His hands. The solid warmth of him. You wanted to put your face against his chest and disappear there. You wanted him to make the room smaller, quieter, less full of mirrors. But you did not want him to see you. Not like this. Not swollen-eyed and panicked. Not in the clothes that suddenly felt contaminated. Not in the body that had become the whole problem. Not when you were half-convinced he would walk in, notice exactly what Kyle had noticed, and be too kind to say it.
Your thumb hovered over the keyboard. You almost typed, Don’t.
Then you imagined him reading it. You imagined him stopping wherever he was. Sitting in his car, maybe. Or standing outside the bar with his jacket in his hand. You imagined him doing exactly what you asked because he was Jack, because he would never force his way in where you had told him not to be. And the thought of him leaving you alone with this hurt worse than the thought of him seeing you. You deleted the word. Typed something else.
You: I don’t know.
You stared at it. It was the only honest thing you had. You sent it before you could change your mind. For a minute, nothing happened. Then:
Jack: Okay.
Your breath caught.
Jack: I’m coming over.
Another message appeared.
Jack: I won’t use my key. I’ll knock. You don’t have to open the door if you don’t want to.
You pressed the phone to your chest and cried again. Not as hard this time. Not because it hurt less. Because there was no energy left for the sharper kind.
You got up before he could arrive and forced yourself back into the bedroom. The mirror was still there. You turned it toward the wall. It was childish, maybe. Dramatic. Useless.
You did it anyway.
Then you stripped out of the cardigan, the top, the jeans. You did not look down. You did not look at the marks the waistband had left on your skin. You did not let your eyes catch on anything long enough to become cruel again. You pulled on the biggest sweatshirt you owned and a pair of soft pajama pants. You washed your face in the bathroom sink. The water ran cold over your fingers. You patted at your skin with a towel, but your eyes were still red. Your mouth still looked unsteady. Your whole face looked like it belonged to someone who had been crying too hard to pretend otherwise. You turned the bathroom light off.
You sat on the edge of your bed. Then stood. Then sat again.
You checked your phone. No new messages.
Your apartment felt too small and too open at the same time. You wrapped both arms around yourself and tried to breathe.
By the time the knock came, you had gone numb in a way that felt almost worse than panic. Three soft taps. Not impatient. Not loud. You froze. A second passed. Then his voice came through the door.
“It’s me,” Jack said.
Your eyes closed. You walked to the door but did not open it.
“You know,” you said.
Jack was quiet for a second on the other side.
“Yes,” Jack said.
Your breath shook. “I didn’t want you to.”
“I know,” Jack said.
You pressed your forehead lightly against the door. The wood was cool against your skin.
“I’m not coming in unless you open the door,” Jack said.
Your face crumpled. A beat passed.
“But I’m not leaving yet,” Jack added, softer.
That was the thing that did it.
Not you’re beautiful.
Not it’s okay.
Not, please let me fix this.
Just that.
He was not leaving yet.
You unlocked the door with shaking fingers and opened it. Jack stood in the hallway, still in the clothes he must have put on for the bar. Jacket over one arm. Hair damp. Face tired from sleep and sharpened by worry. He looked at you. You felt yourself close around the look, bracing for it.
Jack’s been feeding you good, huh?
But Jack did not let his eyes drop. He kept them on your face. Only your face.
“Are you safe?” Jack asked.
The question went through you so gently that it hurt. You nodded once. Jack’s jaw tightened, but his voice stayed calm.
“Are you hurt?” Jack asked.
You laughed, but it broke before it became anything real.
“No,” you said, voice cracking. “Just humiliated.”
Something moved across his face. Not anger. Not first. Pain. Jack looked at you like he had found you bleeding somewhere no one else could see. Then he nodded once, slowly.
“Okay,” Jack said.
You stepped back. He came in. Jack stepped inside, and you immediately wished you had not opened the door. Not because you did not want him there.
Because you did.
That was the problem.
Wanting him there meant he could see you. It meant he could look at your face and know you had been crying. It meant he could look around your apartment and see the clothes still thrown across your bed, the mirror turned toward the wall, the whole ugly aftermath of something you had tried to make small.
You shut the door behind him and folded your arms across your stomach.
Jack noticed. He did not say anything about it. He set his jacket over the back of the couch, then looked at you again. His hands stayed at his sides.
“You didn’t have to come,” you said.
“I know,” Jack said.
Your throat tightened. “I told Mel not to make it a thing.”
“She didn’t,” Jack said.
You let out a short, humorless laugh. “You’re here.”
Jack’s face stayed calm, but his eyes did not. “Because you said you didn’t know.”
You looked away. “That wasn’t yes.”
“I know,” Jack said.
For some reason, that made your eyes burn again. Jack took one small step closer, then stopped when your shoulders tightened. You hated that he saw it. You hated that he stopped. You hated that you were grateful he stopped.
“I’m sorry,” you said.
Jack shook his head once. “No.”
“Jack—” you started.
Your face crumpled around his name. You turned away fast, pressing one hand over your mouth.
“It was stupid,” you said.
“It wasn’t,” Jack said.
“It was a joke,” you said.
“It wasn’t funny,” Jack said.
“I know that,” you snapped, then immediately felt worse. “I know. I’m not saying it was funny. I just—”
Jack stayed quiet.
You wiped at your cheek with the heel of your hand. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that.”
“Like what?” Jack asked.
You gestured vaguely at yourself. The sweatshirt. Your red eyes. The apartment. The fact that he was standing there because you had fallen apart over one comment.
“Like this,” you said.
Jack’s voice stayed low. “You didn’t overreact.”
Your chin trembled. You hated how sure he sounded. You hated that he was not making it smaller. You hated that part of you wanted him to make it smaller, because if he did, maybe you could pretend you had not been crying so hard you could barely breathe.
You already knew Mel had told him.
You already knew he knew.
There was no avoiding it now.
“I didn’t want you to know,” you said.
“I know,” Jack said.
“I didn’t want you to hear that,” you said.
“I know,” Jack said.
“Especially not—” you started, then stopped because you could not even say it.
Especially not with your name in it. Especially not because of you. Especially not because what he said sounded like something everyone had already thought. Jack waited. He did not push. You dropped your hands and looked at the floor.
“It was true,” you said.
Jack’s jaw moved once. “You feel like it’s true,” Jack said carefully.
You laughed, but it came out wet and awful. “Don’t do that.”
Jack looked at you. “Do what?”
“Make it softer,” you said, your voice shaking. “Don’t do the nice doctor thing and make it sound less bad than it is. I looked in the mirror, Jack. I saw exactly what he was talking about.”
Jack’s expression changed. Not shock. Pain. You kept going because if you stopped, you would lose your nerve.
“I see it every day,” you said. “I know my body changed. I know I gained weight. I know I look different. I know clothes don’t fit the same, and I know people notice, and I know you probably notice too.”
Jack said your name quietly.
“No,” you said, shaking your head. “Please just let me say it.”
He went quiet again.
You swallowed hard.
“I hate it,” you said. “I hate my body.”
The words dropped between you. There was no taking them back. You expected him to correct you. You expected him to say don’t say that, or no, you don’t, or you’re beautiful, or any of the things people said because they did not know what else to do with that kind of ugliness. Jack did not. He just looked at you, and his voice was quiet when he answered.
“I know,” Jack said.
Your eyes snapped to his. That was worse somehow.
Kinder, maybe.
But worse.
A sob caught in your throat, and you pressed your fist against your mouth.
“I can’t get away from it,” you said.
Jack’s face tightened.
You shook your head, crying harder now. “I left the bar. I left the bathroom. I came home. I took the clothes off, and it’s still here.”
Your hand moved toward your stomach, then stopped halfway there.
“I’m still in it,” you said.
Jack did not move.
“I can’t get away from myself,” you said, and the words came out so broken you almost did not recognize your own voice.
Jack’s eyes closed for half a second. When he opened them, he looked wrecked.
“Not the same way,” Jack said carefully.
You looked at him through blurry eyes. “What?”
“I don’t know what this feels like for you,” Jack said. “Not exactly.”
You wiped your cheek, breathing unevenly.
Jack looked down for a second, then back at you.
“But I know what it’s like to wake up in a body you didn’t choose and have nowhere else to go,” Jack said.
You went still. Jack did not say it like a speech. He did not make it big. He said it as if it were something he had carried for a long time and did not bring out often.
“After my leg, I stopped looking at myself all at once,” Jack said. “I’d look in pieces. Face. Shoulder. Hands. Anything but the part that made me feel like I wasn’t who I used to be.”
Your throat ached.
Jack’s hand flexed once at his side.
“People tried to be kind,” Jack said. “Most of them were. But it didn’t always help. Sometimes it made it worse.”
“Why?” you whispered.
“Because they wanted me to feel better before I could,” Jack said. “And I couldn’t.”
You looked away. Your chest hurt. “Did it get better?” you asked.
Jack was quiet for a moment. “Some days,” Jack said.
You looked back at him.
“Some days I still hate it,” Jack said, his voice dropping.
The honesty knocked something loose in you. Not relief. Not exactly. But something like permission. You sat down on the edge of the couch because your legs no longer felt steady. Jack stayed where he was until you looked at him. Only then did he move closer. He sat on the coffee table across from you instead of beside you, close enough to be there but not close enough to crowd.
For a minute, neither of you said anything.
Then Jack spoke carefully. “I knew something was wrong,” he said.
Your eyes dropped to your hands.
“I didn’t know what,” Jack said. “Not fully.”
You picked at the sleeve of your sweatshirt.
Jack watched your hands for a second, then looked back at your face.
“You stopped letting me touch you the same way,” Jack said.
The shame came back hot. “I’m sorry,” you said.
“No,” Jack said.
“You noticed,” you said.
“Yes,” Jack said.
Your eyes filled again. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like I didn’t want you.”
Jack’s expression softened. “This isn’t about what I felt.”
“But it is,” you said. “A little. It has to be.”
He did not argue. You looked down, voice dropping until it barely came out.
“I still want you,” you said.
Jack went very still. You hated saying it. Hated how exposed it made you feel. But it was true.
“I still want you,” you said again, and your voice cracked. “That’s the worst part. I want you. So much, but then you touch me, and all I can think about is what you’re seeing.”
Jack’s been feeding you good, huh?
You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself.
“I’m scared to be naked in front of you,” you whispered.
Jack inhaled slowly. Not because he was angry. Because it hurt him, you could see it.
“Okay,” Jack said.
You flinched. “That’s all?”
“No,” Jack said. “That’s where I’m starting.”
You stared at him.
“I’m glad you told me,” Jack said, his voice low and steady.
You shook your head. “It’s humiliating.”
“It’s vulnerable,” Jack said. “That’s not the same thing.”
You let out a shaky breath and looked away. “I hate that you know.”
“I know,” Jack said.
“I hate that I’m like this,” you said.
Jack leaned forward slightly. “You are not something to apologize for.”
Your eyes burned. “You don’t know how it feels.”
“No,” Jack said. “Not the way you do.”
That should have made you angry. It didn’t. It was better than him pretending he understood everything.
Jack’s gaze stayed on your face. “I want you.”
Your breath hitched.
“I need you to know that,” Jack continued. “But I don’t want sex to feel like something you have to survive.”
You closed your eyes.
The words hurt.
They also went somewhere deep.
“I don’t want you counting the seconds until it’s over because you’re scared I’ll be disappointed if you stop,” Jack said carefully.
A tear slipped down your cheek.
“I don’t want you naked and terrified,” Jack said.
You pressed both hands over your face. Jack stopped talking. For a while, all he did was sit there while you cried. Not loudly this time. Just exhausted. When you finally lowered your hands, your voice was small.
“I miss it,” you said.
Jack’s eyebrows pulled together.
“I miss wanting you without thinking about myself,” you said.
Jack looked down. For a second, you thought you had said too much. Then he nodded.
“Then we start there,” Jack said.
You wiped at your face. “Where?”
“With wanting not having to become anything tonight,” Jack said.
You stared at him. Jack’s mouth tightened, but his voice stayed gentle.
“You can want me and not be ready for me to touch you,” Jack said. “Both can be true.”
Your chin trembled.
“You can want to be close and still be scared,” Jack said.
You looked down at your hands.
“You can stop me before I touch you,” Jack continued. “You can stop me after. You can change your mind. You can keep every light off. You can keep every piece of clothing on. You can say no to me for as long as you need, and I am still going to want you.”
You let out a broken sound.
Jack’s eyes softened.
“I’m not waiting for some other version of you,” Jack said.
You shook your head, crying again. “Don’t.”
He stopped. Not offended. Just listening.
You swallowed hard. “Please don’t tell me I’m beautiful right now.”
Jack’s face shifted. “Okay,” Jack said.
Your breath shook. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Jack said again. “I won’t.”
That made you cry harder because he listened. Because he did not try to force the word into you like medicine. Because part of you had wanted him to say it anyway, and another part of you knew you would not have believed him if he did.
Jack waited until you could breathe again. Then his voice changed. Not louder. Firmer.
“You don’t have to believe me when I say you’re beautiful,” Jack said. “Not tonight. Not when you’re hurting like this. I know better than to ask that from you right now.”
You looked at him. His eyes were steady on yours.
“But I need you to hear me on this one,” Jack said.
Your throat tightened. “Jack—”
“My name attached to that joke kills me,” Jack said.
Your face crumpled. Jack’s jaw flexed.
“Because he doesn’t get to use me like that,” Jack said. “He doesn’t get to take the way I love you and turn it into something cruel.”
You looked away, but his voice stayed with you.
“Feeding you, taking care of you, knowing what you like, making sure you eat after a shift — that has never been evidence against you,” Jack said.
You covered your mouth.
“And it has never, not once, been something I was ashamed of,” Jack said.
You cried then. Hard. Jack did not move closer. Not yet. He let you have the space to fall apart.
“It was true,” you said.
“I know it feels that way,” Jack said.
“It felt like everyone saw it,” you said.
“I know,” Jack said.
“Like you saw it too,” you said.
Jack’s answer came slowly. “I see you,” Jack said. “But not like that.”
You looked at him through tears.
He leaned forward, forearms on his thighs, hands open between you.
“I can sit with you while you hate the mirror tonight,” Jack said. “I can hate that you feel it and still not ask you to pretend you don’t.”
Your breathing hitched.
“But I am not letting him put my name on your shame,” Jack said.
The room went quiet after that. Not peaceful. Not fixed. Just quiet. You stared at him, exhausted and hurting and too full of everything to answer. Jack did not ask you to. He just stayed where he was, hands open, waiting for you to decide what came next. For a long time, neither of you moved. Jack stayed on the coffee table, close enough that you could reach him if you wanted to, far enough away that you did not have to. His hands stayed open between you. Empty. Waiting. It made your chest hurt.
He was giving you the choice.
You wiped at your face with your sleeve, then looked down at your lap.
“I still hate it,” you said.
“I know,” Jack said quietly.
Your throat tightened. “I don’t know how to stop.”
“You don’t have to figure that out tonight,” Jack said.
You let out a small, broken breath. “That doesn’t make it better.”
“No,” Jack said. “It doesn’t.”
You looked at him then. There was no argument on his face. No disappointment. No hidden expectation that you would turn the corner now because he had said the right things. He was just there. You hated that you still hurt. You hated that his gentleness did not erase it. You hated that part of you had wanted it to.
“I don’t feel better,” you whispered.
Jack nodded once. “Okay.”
You blinked at him. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Jack said again. “You don’t have to feel better for me to stay.”
Your mouth trembled.
Jack’s voice softened. “Can I sit next to you?”
You stared at him for a second, then nodded. He moved slowly, giving you time to change your mind. The couch dipped beside you, but he left space between your bodies. Not much. Enough that you could breathe. Enough that you could decide. You looked at his hand, where it rested on his thigh. Strong. Still. Familiar.
You wanted him to touch you.
You were scared of him touching you.
Both things lived in your chest at the same time, pushing against each other until it hurt.
Jack did not reach for you. He only sat there, quiet and patient.
“I don’t know how to do this,” you said, your voice small.
Jack turned his head toward you. “Do what?”
“Let you hold me without thinking about it,” you said.
His face shifted, but he did not look away.
“Then we don’t make it complicated,” Jack said. “We do what feels safe.”
You swallowed. “I don’t know what feels safe.”
“That’s okay,” Jack said.
“It doesn’t feel okay,” you said.
“I know,” Jack said.
You looked at him, frustrated and exhausted and close to crying again. “You keep saying that.”
Jack’s mouth tightened slightly. “Because I mean it.”
That undid you more than it should have. A tear slipped down your cheek. Then another.
Jack watched your face, his own pained and careful.
“Can I touch your hand?” Jack asked.
You looked down. His hand had not moved. He was asking before he even reached.
You nodded.
Jack held his hand out, palm up, and let you be the one to close the distance. You put your hand in his. His fingers curled around yours slowly. Not tight. Not claiming.
Just there.
The warmth of him made something in your chest buckle. You leaned forward before you could talk yourself out of it, forehead dropping toward his shoulder. Jack caught the movement, but he did not grab you. He only shifted enough to meet you, his other hand hovering for half a second near your arm.
“Is this okay?” Jack asked.
You nodded against him. “Yes,” you said, breath shaking.
Only then did his hand settle against your upper back. Not your waist. Not your stomach. Nowhere that made you feel measured. Just between your shoulder blades, warm through the sweatshirt, moving once in a slow, careful stroke. Up. Down.
Your breath caught.
Jack stopped immediately.
“I’m okay,” you said quickly.
His hand stayed still. “You don’t have to be.”
You squeezed your eyes shut. “I want you to keep doing that.”
Jack’s hand moved again. Slow. Steady. Up. Down.
You let your forehead rest more heavily against him. For a while, that was all there was. His hand on your back. Your fingers tangled with his. The quiet of your apartment. The sound of your own uneven breathing, trying to find something less painful. You were still aware of your body.
You hated that.
Even tucked against him, even with your face hidden, you could still feel the shape of yourself. The softness. The places you wished you could forget. The body under the sweatshirt. The body under his hand. A sob pushed up your throat again, smaller this time.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
Jack’s hand paused. “Don’t.”
You pressed your eyes tighter shut. “I keep thinking about it.”
“I know,” Jack said.
“I don’t mean to,” you whispered.
“I know,” Jack said.
His hand resumed its slow path along your back. Up. Down. Again.
You tried to breathe with it. It was easier than breathing alone.
After a minute, Jack shifted slightly. You stiffened before you could stop yourself. He noticed immediately.
“Just getting more comfortable,” Jack said. “That’s all.”
You nodded, embarrassed. Jack waited until your shoulders eased before moving again. He leaned back into the couch and adjusted slowly, giving you room to follow or pull away. You followed. Not all at once. First, your shoulder against his chest. Then your cheek. Then the rest of you, carefully, like any sudden movement might make you remember too much.
Jack let you find the position.
When your head finally settled against his chest, his hand came up slowly. You saw it from the corner of your eye and tensed. He stopped.
“Hair?” Jack asked.
Your throat closed. You nodded once. His palm settled lightly against the back of your head. Not holding you down. Not trapping you there. Just steady. His fingers brushed into your hair, careful and slow, smoothing it back from your face. The touch was so gentle it almost made you angry.
Not because it hurt.
Because it didn’t.
Because after a night of feeling like your body was a problem, there was this one simple place where touch asked nothing of you.
Jack’s thumb moved once near your temple.
You exhaled. It shook the whole way out.
“There,” Jack murmured.
You closed your eyes against his shirt. His chest rose and fell beneath your cheek. Slow. Even. Something you could follow without looking at yourself. His hand moved through your hair again. Then his other hand returned to your back. Not low. Not searching. Just your upper back, your shoulders, the place where your body had been holding everything too tightly for too long.
Places that did not ask you to be beautiful.
Places that only asked you to breathe.
You did.
Not well at first.
Your breath caught. Broke. Started over.
Jack did not comment. He did not tell you to calm down. He did not tell you it was okay. He did not ask if you believed him now. He did not ask whether you felt better.
He just held you.
Your body fought it at first. It stayed braced, like it did not trust softness. Like, even comfort was something it needed to prepare for.
Jack’s hand kept moving. Slow. Up and down your back. Through your hair. Over your shoulder. Back again.
Eventually, your fingers unclenched in the fabric of his shirt. Your jaw loosened. Your shoulders dropped by a fraction. Then another.
It was not peace.
Not exactly.
It was exhaustion finding somewhere safe to land.
Jack pressed his mouth once to the top of your head. The kiss was barely there.
“You don’t have to do anything,” Jack said.
You swallowed.
“You don’t have to make me feel better,” Jack continued. “You don’t have to be okay. You don’t have to turn this into something hopeful before you’re ready.”
Your eyes burned again. “I don’t know when I’ll be ready.”
“Okay,” Jack said.
You let out a watery laugh against his chest. “You can’t just say okay to everything.”
“I can try,” Jack said.
That pulled another small sound from you. Not quite a laugh. Not quite crying. Jack’s hand brushed your hair back again. You listened to his heartbeat. It was steady. You hated your body less when you were listening to his. Not because the hate was gone.
It wasn’t.
But because, for a few seconds at a time, there was something else to notice. His breathing. His hand. The cotton of his shirt under your cheek. The warmth of his chest. The fact that he was still there. You shifted carefully, curling closer without thinking. Jack’s arm tightened by a fraction, then loosened again immediately, like he remembered to give you an exit even in the middle of holding you.
That made your throat ache.
“You can hold me,” you whispered.
His hand stilled in your hair. You felt the breath he took. Then his arm came around you more fully, careful and sure. Still high on your back. Still safe. He held your head lightly against his chest, his fingers threading through your hair again, and you let yourself sink into him by degrees.
One breath. Then another. Then another.
The mirror was still turned toward the wall in your bedroom. The clothes were still on the floor. Kyle had still said it. Everyone had still heard. Your body was still your body. You still did not know how to love it. But Jack was warm around you. Jack was not asking you to.
“I love you,” you said.
The words came out quietly, almost by accident. Jack’s hand stopped. For one terrible second, you thought you had said the wrong thing. Then his mouth pressed to your hair again, firmer this time.
“I love you too,” Jack said.
Your face crumpled against his chest.
“I love you,” Jack said, his voice rough.
You nodded because you heard him. You did not yet fully know how to believe all the things underneath it. But you heard him.
And for tonight, that was enough.
His hand moved through your hair again.
Your breath followed his.
Slowly.
Unevenly.
Still hurting.
Still here.
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