Page 181 of Rush
"Rush—"
"I didn't realize how loud my head was until it went quiet with you."
The admission stops me cold.
"What?"
He runs his hand through his hair. "My whole life there's been this constant noise in my head. Fear, anger, guilt—all of it screaming at once. But when I'm with you it goes quiet."
I step forward and open my arms. He sinks into me immediately, his face buried in my neck.
"I've got you," I say quietly.
"I know."
We stand there holding each other, and I realize this is what he needs. Not me to fix it, not me to make it better, just me to be here, solid and present while he processes.
"You don't have to carry everything alone," I say.
"I know, but I don't know how not to."
"Then let me help."
He pulls back and looks at me. "How?"
"By letting me share the weight, by telling me when it's too much, by trusting that I'm strong enough to handle it."
"You are."
"Then prove it. Stop protecting me from your fear."
He touches my face. "I don't want to burden you."
"You're not a burden. You're my partner. And partners share the hard stuff."
He kisses me and it's desperate, like he's trying to anchor himself to something solid. I let him, understanding that this is how he processes emotion. When he pulls back his breathing is steadier.
"Thank you," he says.
"For what?"
"For not running when I show up like this."
"Where else would I go?"
"I don't know, somewhere easier."
"I don't want easy. I want real."
"This is real."
"Yeah, it is."
Later that night, we're lying in bed and Rush is finally asleep. His arm is around me, his breathing deep and even.
I lie awake listening to him and thinking about everything. Our life is changing in ways I can't fully predict.
The club will always carry danger. That's not going away. My dad will always be protective, probably overprotective. The world isn't suddenly safe just because we're having a baby, but our relationship is becoming something solid, something we choose daily instead of falling into by accident.
