I was barefoot, standing in soft moss. The ground didn't hurt—it welcomed me. For once, I wasn't running. I was still.
And someone was calling my name.
I turned toward the sound, heart skipping—but not in fear, in recognition.
Tristan stepped through the trees, neither rushing nor being loud. Just… there. His eyes met mine like they'd known me forever. He didn't say anything at first, just held out a hand.
I didn't hesitate.
When our fingers touched, the forest shifted. I felt the cool, slightly damp moss squishing between my toes, grounding me in that moment of transformation. The sky warmed, a gentle spread of sunlight casting gentle shadows through the leaves. Somewhere in the branches above us, birds scattered, not frightened, just free. Tristan's hand was warm and steady against mine, a tether to reality amidst the magic.
We walked through the woods together, side by side. No looming shadows. No chasing footsteps. Just the soft crunch of leaves beneath us, the rhythm of our breathing in sync.
At one point, I looked down at my arm—where Eric had once left bruises. They were gone. The skin was smooth. Whole. I touched it in wonder, and Tristan noticed. He gently traced his thumb over the same spot, then leaned down and pressed a kiss there.
A soft wind stirred the trees.
"You're safe now," he said, though his mouth didn't move. It was like the forest spoke with his voice. "You don't have to keep looking over your shoulder."
I nodded.
Because I knew it was true.
The path opened up to a clearing—bathed in moonlight, quiet and vast. And there, at the center, was something I never thought I'd see:
Me.
But not scared. Not shrinking.
Standing tall. Eyes clear.
She looked at me—this future version, this possible me—and smiled like she already knew I was on my way.
I turned to Tristan, about to speak—about to ask him if this was real.
But he just squeezed my hand and whispered, "It's yours. All of it. When you're ready."
And then the light brightened, soft and golden, until it filled everything—
I woke with a faint smile still clinging to my lips, the last trace of that dream slipping like silk through my fingers. My chest felt lighter. My body was soft and warm beneath the covers. But then, a sudden chill swept over me, an eerie premonition that something was amiss. The warmth evaporated. Cold sweat pricked at my skin. My breath caught, sharp and involuntary, forcing me to the present moment.
My heart seized.
It wasn't a sound from the dream. It was real. Loud. Sharp. Against the window.
I sat up slowly, the warm comfort of the forest dream bleeding away as my room reassembled itself in the quiet dark. My phone read 4:02 AM.
Thunk.
Another. This time, unmistakably something small and hard—maybe gravel—hitting the glass with just enough force to jolt adrenaline through my veins.
I froze.
No wind. No rain. Just silence… then that sound again.
Someone was out there.
I pushed the covers back slowly, my legs stiff with sudden fear. Every instinct I thought I'd quieted flared to life again, loud and sharp and familiar.
Don't look. Don't look. Please don't give them the satisfaction of knowing you're awake.
But my body moved anyway, slowly and stiffly, pulling toward the window as if gravity had shifted.
I peeked through the edge of the curtain. And my stomach turned to stone. A figure stood across the street—a terrible familiarity in the way he stood, hood up. His posture wasn't just recognizable; it was calculated. As though sensing my gaze, his head tilted slightly, the shadows playing tricks over his face. His fist unclenched slowly at his side, a deliberate motion that suggested a patience as unyielding as stone.
Eric.
He stood too still, like he was waiting for something. Like he had all the time in the world. I couldn't see his face, but I knew—every line of him. Every threat is etched into muscle memory.
He raised his arm like he was about to throw again—and then stopped. Just stared.
I ducked back down, heart racing, breath tight in my chest.
I grabbed my phone with shaking hands, scrolling to find Tristan's name, and hit call.
It rang once.
Twice.
"Winter?" Tristan's voice cut through the silence like a lifeline—low, steady, immediately awake.
"He's here," I whispered. "Eric. He's outside my window—he threw something. He's just… standing there, Tristan. He's not moving."
My voice shook. I could barely hear it over the rushing in my ears, like waves crashing over every thought.
Tristan's voice didn't waver. "Okay. I'm coming right now."
I swallowed hard, but my throat was closing. "I don't know what to do..."
"Listen to me," he said, steady and urgent. "Go sit on the floor, away from the window. Lock your door if it's not already. I'm already heading over."
In the faint crackle of the call, I heard his voice turn away from the phone. "Gabriel—keys. I need your car. It's an emergency." A muffled reply, too far for me to catch.
Then Tristan again, sharper this time: "Now, Gabe."
My legs didn't want to work.
I stumbled backward and slid down the wall, the cold seeping into my spine. "Okay."
"I need you to stay on the phone with me, alright? Until I get there. Don't hang up."
The sound shifted—hurried footsteps, the metallic jingle of keys, a door opening and slamming. A car engine roared to life in my ear, the rumble vibrating faintly through the phone.
I nodded—stupid—and then forced out a whisper, "Okay."
"I've got you, Winter. You're not alone."
But I didn't feel like a person anymore. Every muscle felt wired with tension, coiling like a spring ready to snap. My skin buzzed, tingling fingers twitching involuntarily at my sides. My heart pounded so hard it hurt, hammering inside my ribs like a drumbeat drowning out everything else. My vision blurred at the edges, turning the world into a haze of light and shadow. I curled up, knees pulled to my chest, back against the wall like I could melt into it. The silence outside pressed in like a scream without sound.
What if he's still there? What if he's coming in? What if this never ends? What if I deserved this? What if I can't keep doing this?
Tristan's voice stayed soft in my ear, like a lifeline.
"Talk to me," he said. "Or don't. Just let me be here with you."
I couldn't speak. My throat was closing, my breath stuttering like I'd forgotten how. Tears welled in my eyes, hot and blinding.
Don't fall apart. Don't be weak. Don't let him win.
But I was falling apart.
And then it broke, sharp and sudden, a sob ripped through me before I could stop it. My whole body convulsed, and with it came a metallic taste that coated my mouth. The sudden rush of it made my ears ring, turning everything else into muffled echoes. I buried my face in my arms, ashamed and terrified and exhausted. The sound that came out of me didn't even feel human.
"I'm sorry," I choked. "I can't stop—I—"
"Don't apologize," Tristan said, a brief pause catching in his throat, as if weighing the gravity of the moment. "You don't have to be okay right now. I've got you. Just let it out. I'm almost there."
Despite the steadiness in his voice, his hand clenched briefly before relaxing again, a subtle sign of the fear he kept tightly controlled beneath his calm exterior.
His voice didn't shake. Not even once.
So I cried harder.
Not because I was alone—But because for the first time, I wasn't. And that made it harder to hold it all in.
The fear, the shame, the anger—how long I'd been carrying them like they were mine to carry alone. But something inside of me shifted. I decided, in that moment, to breathe through it. A small act, yet it felt like reclaiming the tiniest corner of myself from the weight of it all. Even as tears welled and my chest tightened, I allowed myself the choice to let go, if only a little.
Minutes passed. Or hours. Time bent.
But I kept the phone pressed to my ear like a lifeline, holding on to the sound of someone who wasn't trying to fix me.
Just someone who stayed.
Then finally—finally—
"I'm out front," Tristan said, his voice low in my ear.
Through the line, I caught the faint click of his car door opening, the slam muffled by distance, followed by the crunch of his boots on the driveway. He exhaled, a soft rush of breath against the phone.
"He's gone," he said after a pause. "I don't see him out here. You're safe."
I didn't move.
"I know it's hard," he said softly. "But I'm here. Can you come down to me? Just stay on the line with me, all the way."
I breathed in. Shaky. Thin. But it went through.
"I'll try."
"That's all I need," he murmured.
It took everything I had to pull myself to my feet. My legs barely held me. My whole body buzzed with leftover terror.
"I'm still here," Tristan said. "One step at a time."
I took one. The memory of Eric's silhouette outside played behind my eyes, each footstep tentative and fraught with tension. My fingers fumbled at the doorknob, trying to turn it, but panic made everything slippery and difficult. For a heart-stopping moment, it felt stuck, as if my escape was barred. I took a shaky breath, forcing myself to grip it firmly. Finally, it gave way.
Then another.
Still on the phone, still hearing his breath—solid and real and there—I made it down the stairs, never letting go of his voice.
When I opened the front door, I didn't even speak.
I just fell into his arms. He caught me instantly, arms strong and steady as I collapsed against his chest, sobbing hard into the fabric of his hoodie.
"I've got you," he whispered, over and over, his hand cradling the back of my head. "You're safe now. I've got you."
And for the first time in a long time, I believed it.
I don't know how long I cried in his arms.
Minutes? A lifetime? Time didn't feel real.
He didn't rush me. Didn't say a single empty word.
He just held me—solid and still—like the world could fall apart around us and he'd still be there.
When my sobs finally softened, leaving behind only ragged breaths and sore lungs, he gently tilted my chin up. His touch was careful, like I might break if he wasn't.
"Can we go inside?" he asked softly, like it was my choice. Always my choice.
I nodded.
He led me in, one hand warm against the small of my back. I barely registered the door closing behind us or the soft click of the lock. The house felt darker than before. Heavier. But less empty now.
We moved to the couch, and I sank into it like my bones had turned to dust. Tristan crouched in front of me, not sitting, not towering—just there. Eye-level. Grounding.
"Do you want water?" he asked. "Or tea, maybe?"
"I don't know," I whispered, voice shredded. "I can't think."
"That's okay." His voice was like velvet over broken glass. "You don't have to."
I felt the tears threatening again, but they didn't come like before. This time, they were quiet. Slow.
Tristan sat beside me, close but not crowding, and offered me the blanket draped over the arm of the couch. I pulled it over myself like armor.
"I hate this," I choked out. "I hate that he still does this to me—even when he's not here."
Tristan didn't tell me I was strong. He didn't say I'd be okay.
He just nodded like he understood in ways I didn't have to explain.
"He doesn't get to have that power over you," he said. "Not forever."
I stared at the floor. "It doesn't feel like I'll ever get out of it."
"You will," he said quietly. "Because you're already starting to."
Something about the way he said it—no doubt, no push—broke something open in me.
I leaned against him, head resting on his shoulder. He didn't move. Didn't breathe too loud.
Just let me exist there. Safe. Seen.
"I was so scared," I whispered into the dark.
"I know."
His hand found mine, steady and warm.
"You're not alone anymore, Winter."
For the first time in what felt like forever, I believed him.
And slowly, in the silence of my living room, with his heartbeat steady under my ear…
I began to breathe again.
The silence stretched between us—not awkward, not heavy. Just still. The kind of quiet that only happens when two people are both too tired and too raw to pretend.
Outside, the street was empty—no gravel against glass. No shadows pacing the sidewalk. Just the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the steady rhythm of Tristan's breathing beside me.
But my mind kept replaying it. That shadow under the streetlight. The way Eric had just stood there. Watching.
"He was right there," I said suddenly, my voice sharper than I intended. "Right outside my house."
Tristan's jaw flexed. He hadn't moved much since we'd sat down, but now I could feel a tension radiating from him like heat.
"Yeah," he said, his tone tight.
I gripped the blanket tighter. "He wasn't even doing anything, but it's like—like I could feel him waiting."
Tristan's hand curled into a fist against his knee.
"He had no right to be here. None." His voice had dropped, low and edged in steel. "If I'd gotten here sooner."
He stopped himself, exhaling through his nose like he was keeping something in check.
"Tristan—"
"No," he said, meeting my eyes. "I need you to know… that wasn't okay. He doesn't get to scare you. He doesn't get to stand out there like he owns any part of your life anymore."
My throat tightened. "It's like he still does, though. Just showing up…"
"That's what he wants you to think," Tristan said, the words coming slow, deliberate. "That you'll always be looking over your shoulder. But you're not alone in this anymore. If he ever comes back—" He broke off again, shaking his head like finishing that sentence would lead somewhere I wasn't ready for.
There was something fierce in his eyes now, something that burned hot enough to make me shiver—but it wasn't aimed at me. It was all for Eric.
And even though part of me was still trembling, another part—the part that had been alone with this fear for too long—felt steadier knowing Tristan was here, and that his anger wasn't something I had to fear.
"I always thought I'd be the type to leave at the first red flag," I murmured, my voice quieter now. "Like I was smarter than that."
"You are smart," Tristan said softly.
"Not smart enough." My voice cracked. "I stayed. I stayed through all of it, even when it hurt. Even when I knew."
"You stayed because he controlled you," he said gently. "That doesn't make you weak. It makes him a shitty human."
I glanced at him, surprised.
He met my gaze evenly. "People always think love is supposed to be easy. That if it hurts, it's not real. But the truth is, love isn't the problem. Control is. Fear is."
I swallowed the lump rising in my throat. "He used to say no one else would ever get me, that I was too much. Too strange. That I'd ruin anyone else who tried."
Tristan leaned in slightly, his voice low and steady. "You're not too much, Winter. And you don't ruin people. He didn't know what to do with something real."
The ache in my chest flared again—but this time it wasn't just pain. It was recognition. The way he saw through the pieces I kept hidden. The way his words didn't try to fix me, just met me where I was.
"I thought maybe I was broken," I admitted. "That maybe I deserved it."
"You didn't," he said immediately, fiercely. "Not one second of it."
I looked down at my hands, tracing the frayed edge of the blanket. "You don't even know all of it."
"I don't have to," he said. "I've seen enough."
My eyes burned, but I didn't look away this time. "Why are you being so kind to me?"
"Because someone should be," he said. "And I want it to be me."
My breath caught in my throat.
The room felt warmer somehow. Or maybe it was just him. The way his words didn't crowd me, didn't demand anything in return—just a steady offer—quiet and real.
"Thank you," I whispered. "For showing up tonight. For not letting me go through that alone."
"I'll always show up," he said. "Even if all I can do is sit here and be still with you."
I let my head fall lightly against his shoulder, and this time, he leaned into me too. Not too much. Not possessive.
Just present.
The clock ticked on. The world outside kept turning.
But inside the small, quiet glow of my living room, something shifted. A kind of beginning that didn't need fanfare or fireworks.
Just two people. Bruised, but breathing.
Together.
At some point, the weight of the night pulled me under. As I surrendered to sleep, the faint scent of Tristan's hoodie lingered, a comforting reminder of his presence. Outside, the city continued to rush on, promising a new day and the gentle continuity of life.