Brandon's POV
The city lights blurred past the taxi window as I held Amelia's hand, steady but tense. We didn't say much — words felt useless after everything that had happened.
When we finally reached the hotel, I led her up to our room. The door closed behind us with a soft click, shutting out the noise of the city and the storm of emotions swirling inside me.
She sank onto the edge of the bed, eyes distant. I watched her, feeling the weight of everything she'd endured — more than most people face in a lifetime.
In that moment, a shadow from my own past crept in — memories of my father's voice, harsh and unyielding, the bruises I hid behind smiles. The same fear I'd seen in Amelia's eyes when Mark loomed over her.
It wasn't just sympathy. It was something deeper — understanding. A shared history of pain that neither of us wanted to speak aloud.
I moved beside her, careful not to startle her, and wrapped my arms around her trembling shoulders. She didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned into me, the fragile weight of her exhaustion settling between us.
No words passed between us — none were needed. In that quiet embrace, we found a refuge. A small, fragile peace in the eye of a storm neither of us could fully escape yet.
And as the night deepened, I promised myself silently: no matter what came next, I wouldn't let her face it alone.
I sat with my back against the headboard, Amelia curled into the crook of my arm. The silence between us had stretched for nearly an hour, broken only by the hum of the cars on the street outside.
Finally, she shifted, her voice quiet but clear.
"It's strange… when you go through something like that, you think it's going to destroy you. And maybe it does. But it also… I don't know… hardens you. Shapes you."
I looked down at her. "Shapes you into what?"
She shrugged against me. "For me? Someone who doesn't need anybody. Someone who's stronger than she should have to be." Her voice trembled, and she caught herself before it turned into a crack.
"Mark… he thought he was breaking me. But every time he tried, I just —" She clenched her jaw. "I got harder to break."
I let that sit for a moment. Then I said,
"It could have gone the other way."
She tilted her head toward me. "You mean, I could've turned into him?"
"Yeah," I said. "Some people… they take what was done to them and they pass it on. You didn't. You chose to be good. To be kind. That's… rare."
She studied me for a long moment. "What about you?"
I exhaled slowly, my chest tightening.
"My dad was… cruel. Not all the time, which almost made it worse. You'd start to believe maybe he could change. Then one day he'd decide I needed to be reminded who was in charge." My voice dipped lower, the memories sharper than I wanted. "I learned to stay quiet. Keep my head down. I thought if I was invisible, I'd be safe."
Her fingers found mine, lacing together gently. "But you didn't become him either."
I gave a faint, humorless smile. "No. I think… I just became protective. Like if I could stop it from happening to someone else, maybe it wouldn't matter that it happened to me."
Amelia's eyes softened, the kind of look that felt like it stripped you bare without judgement. "That's why you've stayed. Why you're still here, even when you could've walked away."
I nodded, my throat too tight for words.
She shifted closer, her hand brushing against my cheek. "You've been protecting me since the moment we met, Brandon. And I —" Her voice faltered, then steadied. "I've never felt safer than I do with you."
I don't know who moved first. Maybe it was both of us. But the space between us closed until her lips touched mine, slow and certain.
This wasn't the hurried, stolen kind of kiss we'd shared before. This was deliberate — like we were both saying the things we hadn't found the courage to put into words.
The kiss deepened, and I felt her melt against me, the tension in her shoulders giving way to something softer. My hands slid to her waist, hers tangled in my hair, and the world beyond the hotel walls disappeared.
Clothes fell away in quiet, unhurried motions. It wasn't about need — it was about connection. About telling each other with our bodies what we'd both spent years being told we didn't deserve.
And in the dim light of the room, we found something neither of us had expected: not just safety, but the beginnings of healing.
*****
The light through the curtains was pale and thin, the kind that made the world outside look colder than it really was. Amelia's head rested on my chest, her breath slow and steady against my skin. For a few blissful seconds, I forgot about everything — Mark, the police, the way the last two weeks had felt like a lifetime compressed into hours.
She stirred, her hair brushing against my jaw. "Morning," she murmured.
"Morning," I said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
It would've been easy to stay like that. To forget about the rest of the world outside. Forget about Mark. But reality is never easy.
A sharp knock broke the stillness. Not the hesitant kind, either — this was firm, official. Amelia tensed instantly, her muscles tightening under my arm.
I climbed out of bed, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, and cracked the door. Two uniformed officers stood in the hallway.
"Mr. Hale? Miss Stern?" the taller one asked, scanning the room over my shoulder. "We need to speak with you both."
Amelia sat up in bed, clutching the sheet to her chest. "Is something wrong?"
The officer's expression didn't change. "We just have some follow-up questions about last night."
Follow-up. My gut twisted at the word.
One of the officers escorted Amelia to a small conference room near the hotel lobby. I sat in another room with the second officer, who clicked his pen like a metronome.
"Tell me again exactly what happened before Mark Fletcher's death," he said, his tone carefully neutral.
"I've already told you," I said, keeping my voice even. "He came at her, I intervened, he lost his footing —"
"Mr. Hale," the officer cut in, "the forensics team will determine exactly what happened. For now, I need to know if there's anything you haven't told us."
I met his gaze. "No. There isn't."
He wrote something down, his pen scratching against the paper. "You understand how it looks, don't you? Fletcher is dead, you and Miss Stern were both present, and your stories match… perhaps a little too well."
It wasn't an accusation — not outright — but it landed like one.
When the officer was finally done with me, I walked out to find Amelia waiting in the hallway. Her face was pale, her lips pressed tight.
"They think we're lying," she whispered.
"Let them think it," I said quietly, sliding my arm around her shoulders. "We know the truth."
Still, the knot in my stomach didn't loosen.