Chapter 39 39
FREYA POV
“Stupid me.” I smirk, removing Steve’s hand from my neck.
Yes, the stupid one is me.
I’m stupid in a way that I always allow my body to control my brain.
I know Steve could make me melt with a single look, not to talk of touch.
But I should have thought twice. The Steve here is not that same Steve. Steve here is shattered. He looks broken.
Funny I didn’t notice that on time.
I straightened my back and looked at him. I could tell he was confused; he noticed the way my mood switched, the heat in the room suddenly turning into something else. I looked at him closely. Funny. He still had that hard fighter's frame, but his eyes were different.
“Freya,” he called.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He pulled away a bit, his hand dropping to his side. He looked into my eyes with total confusion, his jaw tight.
I keep looking straight at him. I see the way his eyes are red around the edges, like he hasn’t slept properly. I look past him into the living room.
There are empty beer bottles standing on the table, like three of them, one tipped over on its side with a little dried puddle underneath from whenever it fell. There is a whiskey bottle on the floor next to the couch, and there’s also an ashtray full of cigarette butts on the arm of the chair.
Just staring at them makes my chest start hurting, like this same man has been my first call, the first to run to, but guess what? He can’t even find a shoulder when he’s shattered, when he’s mourning.
“I’m sorry," I said again, fighting back my tears…
He frowns harder. “What the hell are you sorry for?”
“For not seeing any of this before today.” I point at the bottles, at the frame, at him, but my hand feels slow, like it’s moving through water. “You look like complete shit, Steve. Not the normal tough-guy look you always have when you’re trying to scare people or fuck me. The real broken kind of shit.
He doesn’t say anything back right away. He just keeps staring at me like I said something in a different language he doesn’t understand yet.
“Don’t grieve alone,” I tell him. My voice comes out small and shaky, and it doesn’t land the way I want it to.
His whole face changes for a second. His jaw clenches so tight I see the muscle jump under his skin. He swallows hard, once, then again.
“I want to do something in return,” I say, pushing the words out fast before I lose my nerve completely. “Let me do something in return. Not just you always being the one who holds everything together for me when I’m falling apart. Do you need a shoulder to lean on? Do you need someone to just sit here with you in this mess? Stop putting me in the dark and making me feel useless every time you’re hurting like this. Please. Let me do something for you. Not something for me. Something for you.”
He still doesn’t speak.
But I see it happen in his eyes anyway. Something old and painful moves there.
I take one step closer to him. I don’t touch him. I just get closer.
He doesn’t step back.
He doesn’t push me away.
He doesn’t growl or tell me to leave or say anything at all.
I don’t even know what to do next. I just feel like doing something, anything, so I pull him into a hug.
But it’s funny…
It doesn't feel like how I expected. I mean, Steve's body didn't help the matter; his huge, muscled body makes me feel impossibly small.
I only do it because it’s the only thing my brain can process right now. I feel like he needs comfort. He needs someone to hold him who isn't a memory or a ghost.
I feel like I’m trying to anchor a mountain, but I don't care. I just hold on.
After a long while, I feel him shift. He doesn't pull away, but his body goes rigid again, that soft moment of surrender hardening back into the Steve I know.
His voice comes out low, rough, and right against my hair.
“So if you don’t want me to grieve alone,” he says, “what the hell do you want to do to comfort me?”
While his hand slides up my back slowly, deliberately, until his fingers curl around the back of my neck—
Before I could even think about pulling away to look at him, he added.
“I’m not a normal guy, Freya. I don’t do flowers. I don’t do sweet talk.
I swallow hard again.
And again.
And again.