Lucas leads her past the plywood partition, his hand still wrapped around hers, fingers laced tight like he's afraid she'll dissolve if he lets go. The back room smells of concrete dust and motor oil, a bare bulb casting everything in harsh yellow light. A single cot sits against the wall, sheets rumpled, a flannel shirt draped over a crate. Emma's heart hammers as he stops in the center of the space, turning to face her, his eyes dark and unreadable.
"Emma." Her name comes out rough, scraped raw. He lifts his free hand, fingers brushing the hem of her shirt where it meets her jeans. His knuckles graze her skin—calloused, warm, trembling. "I need to see it."
She knows what he means. The scar beneath her ribs, the one she's never shown anyone, the one she traces in the dark of her apartment when she can't sleep. Her throat closes, but she nods once, small. He watches her face as his fingers curl under the fabric, lifting slowly, giving her every chance to stop him.
The shirt rises, and the bare bulb catches the silver line cutting across her ribcage—faint now, a year old, but visible. His breath leaves him in a sharp, broken sound. His thumb hovers above the scar without touching, like he's afraid it will hurt her, like he's memorizing the shape of what she carried alone.
Then he leans in and presses his mouth to it. Soft. Reverent. His lips warm against the old wound, his stubble grazing her skin, and she feels something crack open in her chest—the years of silence, the nights she spent bleeding out in a city that didn't know her name. She makes a sound, small and broken, and his hand finds her hip, steadying her.
"I left because I couldn't face you," she whispers, the words falling out before she can stop them. "Not after what I did. Not after what I almost did." She swallows hard, her fingers gripping his shoulder. "I went to Chicago. I got a job in a coffee shop. I lived in a room with no window, and I drank myself stupid every night because I couldn't stop seeing your face."
He doesn't look up, his forehead pressed against her ribs now, his breath hot through her shirt. His arms slide around her waist, pulling her closer, and she feels him trembling against her. "I fell apart, Lucas. Completely. I didn't tell anyone because there was no one to tell."
His hands find the small of her back, fingers pressing into her skin like he's trying to hold her together. She keeps going, voice cracking, telling him about the nights she walked to the edge of the L platform and stood there, about the phone she picked up a hundred times and never dialed. He listens. His hands stay on her, holding every broken piece she gives him.
When she finally stops, the silence settles thick and heavy. He pulls back, his eyes wet, and she catches the shine on his lashes. Without a word, he sinks onto the cot, tugging her with him, pulling her into his lap so she's straddling his thighs, her knees on either side of his hips.
His arms wrap around her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other pressed flat between her shoulder blades. He holds her like he's building a shelter, like he's the only thing keeping the world from crushing her. He presses his lips to her hair, his voice raw and steady.
"I'll carry it with you now."
She shifts, her cheek finding the worn cotton of his shirt. The fabric is soft from years of washing, carrying the faint scent of sawdust and something warmer—him. Beneath her ear, his heartbeat thuds, steady and alive, a rhythm she hasn't felt this close since she was seventeen. The sound fills her, drowning out the hum of the bare bulb, the distant rattle of the hardware store's front door.
His arms tighten around her, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair. He doesn't speak. Neither does she. The silence isn't empty—it's full, carrying the weight of everything they've said, everything they haven't. Her breath comes slow, matching his, and she feels the rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek.
His thumb traces the curve of her skull, a slow, absentminded motion. She closes her eyes, letting herself sink into it—the warmth of him, the solid press of his body against hers. Her fingers curl into the fabric at his shoulder, holding on. Not because she's afraid he'll disappear. Because she wants to feel him here, real, under her hands.
"I forgot what this sounds like," she whispers, her voice muffled against his chest.
His hand stills for a moment, then resumes its slow path through her hair. "What?"
"Your heart." She presses her palm flat over where she feels it, the steady thrum vibrating through her fingers. "I used to fall asleep to this. On the couch in your parents' basement. You'd be asleep, and I'd just... listen."
She feels his breath catch. His hand tightens in her hair, pulling her closer, and she lets him. Her cheek presses harder against his chest, and she hears it again—that same rhythm, unchanged. A thread connecting that girl to this one, that basement to this back room, all the years between them.
"It never stopped," he says, his voice low and rough. "Not once."
She doesn't ask him to explain. She knows what he means. That the rhythm of his heart has been hers, even when she wasn't there to hear it. Her eyes burn, and she presses them shut, her breath hitching once before she steadies it. She doesn't want to cry anymore. Not tonight. Not in this moment that feels like a gift she doesn't deserve but can't bring herself to give back.
His hand slides down her spine, settling at the small of her back, and he pulls her tighter, his chin resting on the crown of her head. The cot creaks beneath them, and the bare bulb hums its steady yellow glow, and outside, the world keeps turning. But here, in the dust and the oil and the quiet, she lets herself be held. She lets herself listen.
His heartbeat. Steady. Alive. Hers.