she wasn’t used to this—emotions born of connection, not convenience. not the fleeting intimacy of a one-night escape, but something slower, steadier. something that lingered. something like cade.
there was a quiet gravity to him, a gentleness in the way he didn’t ask too much. he just observed. he listened. his presence never demanded, only offered. and somehow, it was ENOUGH.
maybe it was the way his touch softened the edges of her, the same way sunlight thaws through the tail-end of a bitter winter. or the way silence didn’t feel suffocating when he was around. with him, it came easier. the tension in her shoulders eased. she caught herself smiling [ really smiling ] though the ache behind her honeyed gaze never fully disappeared.
he wasn’t a replacement. no one ever could be.
grief like hers wasn’t something that could be swept away or rewritten. it lived in her—an ever-present shadow trailing behind every fragile moment of peace. a storm cloud she carried in her chest. some days heavier than others. some days, nearly suffocating. but if there was solace to be found, it was in these quiet, flickering moments with him. she’d take it.
the nightmares hadn’t come in a while.
the kind that ripped her out of sleep, breathless and broken. the kind that took her back to that day. that impossible, blood-stained day. THE CHAOS. the screaming. the gunfire. it had all unraveled so quickly, a blur of sound and color and violence. but the aftermath? that part never faded. the image of her son and daughter, crumpled and still, surrounded by a sea of red—
that stayed. especially in her dreams.
her body jerked before the scream could fully form, limbs thrashing against damp sheets, breath catching mid-sob. sweat clung to her skin, pooling along her hairline, trailing down the curve of her spine. her fists gripped the bedding like an anchor as the broken words poured out.
“no, please… lisa, frankie… no!!!”
she shot upright, breath ragged, vision blurred, her hands trembling as they reached instinctively for something that wasn’t there. she stared down at them in horror, half-expecting to see blood. but there was none. not anymore. just silence, and her heart pounding like a war drum in her chest. and then—his hands. gentle. careful. a whisper of comfort against the wreckage of her panic. but even that was too much. she recoiled. not meaning to. not from him. but from the unbearable weight of it all.
the words were a SHIELD, dull and brittle. she didn’t mean for them to cut. didn’t mean to sound cold. but comfort had never come easy after the storm. guilt always arrived first. why did she get to feel anything resembling peace? why did she get to breathe when her children, her husband [ her entire world ] lay buried beneath the earth?
“i need a minute,” she added softly, already slipping out of bed, the floor cold against her bare feet. she disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her with a quiet finality. she stood there for a moment, staring at her reflection. alive. but not whole. not yet.
