CHAPTER 35
I softened. "But last night? You didn't hurt me."
He swallowed. "I wouldn't have let anyone else touch you."
"I know."
And I did.
God help me, I knew.
\---
I stood slowly, brushing past him on the way to the bathroom.
At the door, I stopped.
"You were right," I said over my shoulder.
"About what?"
"I shouldn't have been there without you."
He didn't say anything.
But when I turned back, his face wasn't triumph.
It was something else.
Something like hope.
"Don't make me ask twice—what the hell did you put in her drink?"
Tony's voice cut through the haze like a knife. Distant yet clear, like it was trapped underwater and I was the drowning girl hearing it from the bottom of the ocean.
I didn't know if I was dreaming. I couldn't open my eyes. Couldn't move. I existed in that half state between sleep and consciousness, body heavy, skin warm, heart slow.
I heard another sound—a crashing noise. Maybe a chair. Maybe a voice muffled in fear.
Another curse.
A more muted tone. A phone call?
Then footsteps. Heavy. Pacing.
Then silence.
\---
The next time I woke, I felt cotton.
Sheets.
A blanket. Soft and thick.
The air was fragrant with cedar and metal and something indefinably Tony—warm spice, sweat, and shadows.
I was still in his room.
Still in his bed.
And somewhere near me, I felt the presence of someone not sleeping.
\---
I forced myself to open my eyes.
The room was dark, lit only by the soft light of a streetlamp through the window. The digital clock on the bedside table glowed 3:08 AM in soft red digits.
I pushed myself up on my elbows slowly. My arms ached. My head throbbed. But I was okay.
Alive.
Whole.
When I looked around, I saw him.
Tony.
Shirtless at the window, back to me.
The bruises on his knuckles were red and puffy, like they were still fresh. One hand was clutching a half-melted ice pack. The other was between his knees, twitching like it was itching for something to hit.
I blinked again, dry lips. "Tony?"
He didn't move.
Didn't turn.
But I saw how his back rose and fell, slow and struggling.
"I'm awake," I whispered.
Still, he didn't turn.
Instead, he spoke to the window. The dark. The guilt in his throat.
"I'm not going to let anything hurt you again. Not even me."
That hit harder than any accusation he'd ever thrown at me.
Because for once, it wasn't a threat.
It was a promise.
A silent, desperate one.
\---
I lay down again, body still sluggish, mind dispersed like ashes. His words played in my mind, wrapping around me like a second blanket. Tighter. Warmer. More tangible than the duvet he had drawn to my collarbone.
Not even me.
It wasn't distance.
It wasn't rejection.
It was restraint.
And for a boy like Tony Zacks—who lived on edges, on collision, on possession—restraint meant more than roses or love letters.
It meant he was afraid.
Of himself.
Of hurting me.
And maybe, just maybe, of losing what we'd only just begun to build.
\---
I didn't remember falling asleep again.
But I woke with the sun filtering through the curtains and the gentle sound of water running in the bathroom.
Tony was gone from the room.
I sat up, this time more slowly, and looked around.
The photo I'd taken of him—moonlit and alone—was framed now, placed gently on his desk.
That small gesture cracked something in my chest.
I remembered what he'd said last night, before things went dark. Before the drink kicked in.
"You're the only real thing I have left."
\---
When the door to the bathroom opened, he emerged, damp hair curling at the back of his neck, a black tee shirt clinging to his chest. The bruises on his knuckles had darkened, a rich purple spreading like war paint.
We stared at each other for a long while.
And then I whispered, "You didn't have to stay."
He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. "I did."
"Why?"
His voice was gruff. "Because you'd do it for me."
We didn't talk much after that.
He made coffee. I drank it.
He offered toast. I declined.
We sat in the silence, broken only by the scrape of his spoon on ceramic.
Finally, I spoke up, "Did you… did you find out who did it?"
His jaw tightened. "Yes."
"Tony—"
"He's no longer on campus."
My stomach cramped. "What does that mean?"
"It means he won't touch you. Ever again."
I didn't push further.
Not because I condoned whatever he did.
But because I knew what it was to be that scared.
That powerless.
And to have someone fight for you, even when they did not know how to fight right.
\---
I rose, my balance steadying now.
"I should go," I said softly.
Tony did not stop me. But when I reached the door, he spoke, "Wait."
I turned.
He bridged the gap in two strides, stopping inches away from me. His hand came to rest beside my cheek, like he wanted to touch but didn't have the courage.
"I meant what I said," he breathed. "About not letting anything hurt you."
"I know."
"And I meant the second part too."
I nodded. "I know."
His eyes darkened. "But that's not the same as saying I'm good for you."
"No," I said. "It's not.".
"But I want to be," he whispered.
I swallowed. "Then start by not disappearing again. Not when it gets quiet."
His breath caught.
"Because I can't be a storm shelter," I went on. "I need more than damage control."
Tony exhaled slowly. "I'll try."
It wasn't a vow.
It wasn't a promise in blood.
But it was the truth.
And for Tony Zacks, trying might be the most intimate thing he'd ever offered anyone.
\---
I left without kissing him.
He let me.
And it did not feel final.
It felt like a beginning with scar tissue.
But even scarred skin can still feel.
Still heal.
\---
Later that night, I developed the roll of film from the week before—the one I'd nearly forgotten I had.
Among the noise and mess, a frame emerged.
Tony.
In profile.
Eyes closed.
A scar near his collarbone visible under his shirt.
He was not looking at me.
He was not pretending.
He was just being.
And for the first time, I realized…
Maybe he wasn't trying to be loved.
Maybe he was just trying to be seen.
And I had the lens for that.