I enjoy his warmth, and I swear I want to go, but I can't.
His arms are wrapped around me, one under my neck, the other slung low across my waist like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go. Rowan sleeps like he fights—stubbornly, all in, taking up more space than his body should actually allow. His breath is warm against the back of my neck, slow and steady, each exhale brushing the tiny hairs there and sending shivers down my spine.
I should move. I should get up. I should definitely not be lying here in my bed, wrapped up in my almost‑boyfriend‑former‑bet‑turned‑hero, when my brain is doing that thing where it spirals into the worst possible scenarios.
If Mom walks in. If Michel walks in. If Gali walks in.
God, if Gali walks in, I'll never hear the end of it.
I shift a little, testing the waters. His arm tightens instantly.
"Don't," he mumbles into my hair, voice rough with sleep. "Five more minutes, Brooklyn."
I roll my eyes, even though he can't see it. "You said that thirty minutes ago," I whisper.
He nuzzles closer, his nose brushing the base of my neck. "Then five more thirty minutes," he mutters.
Despite myself, a smile tugs at my lips. Annoying. Infuriating. Addicting.
This.
This warmth. This weight. This quiet.
I like it too much.
That's the problem.
Because underneath the soft, sleepy comfort, there's a knot in my chest that won't loosen. A voice that keeps whispering, This won't last. Nothing ever does.
I swallow, staring at the glow‑in‑the‑dark stars on my ceiling. They look different in the early morning light—faded, almost invisible until the room goes dark again.
"Rowan," I say softly. "You have to go before my mom comes in and actually murders you."
He groans dramatically. "Your mom loves me."
"She loves that you saved me," I correct. "She doesn't love that you're in my bed."
He sighs, the sound vibrating against my back. "Technicality."
I jab my elbow lightly into his ribs.
"Ow," he complains, even though I barely touched him. "Domestic violence. Noted."
I can't help it—I laugh. The sound feels strange in the quiet morning, too loud for a house that's still half asleep.
"Fine," he finally relents, loosening his grip. Cold air sneaks into the space his body leaves behind, and I instantly miss him. "I'll climb out before your mom mounts my head on the wall."
"Good plan," I say, rolling onto my back.
He props himself up on one elbow and looks down at me. Morning light slips around the edges of my curtains, tracing soft edges along his jaw, the fading bruises, the bruise‑purple cut on his lip.
His curls are a mess. His hoodie is twisted. His eyes, though half‑open, are stupidly soft.
"You okay?" he asks, searching my face.
There it is again. That question.
Am I okay?
"I will be," I say, because that's the closest thing to the truth.
He studies me for another second, then nods like he accepts that. He leans down and presses a slow kiss to my forehead.
"I'll text you when I get home," he murmurs. "And before school. And during class. And—"
"Rowan."
"Yeah?"
"Go," I say, but my voice is soft.
He grins, that lopsided, stupid, beautiful smile that undo buttons in my spine.
"Yes, ma'am," he says.
He swings his legs off the bed and heads for the window. Just before he climbs out, he glances back.
"Hey, warrior?"
"Yeah?"
"For the record," he says, "I like waking up like this. With you. Even if you threaten my life before breakfast."
I feel heat rush to my cheeks. "Get out, Rowan."
He laughs under his breath and slips out the window, disappearing into the early morning light.
The second he's gone, the room feels bigger. Colder. Louder in the worst way.
The silence presses in, heavy and familiar.
I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them, staring at the spot where his body just was.
I enjoy his warmth, and I swear I want to go, but I can't.
Go where?
That's the part that sticks in my throat.
Out of this bed. Out of this room. Out of this version of myself that only seems to exist when he's here.
Because when he's gone, it's just me. And some days, I don't know if that's enough.
I drag myself out of bed and head to the bathroom. The mirror is not kind.
Bruise along my jaw, now a sick yellow‑purple. Faint shadow under my eyes. A healed cut on my bottom lip I barely remember getting.
I turn, lifting my shorts just enough to see the marks on my thigh.
Old burns. Softened scars. My fingers hover above them but don't touch.
I don't reach for the glass. I don't reach for the lighter.
That drawer is still empty.
Instead, I grip the sink until my knuckles ache.
"You're still here," I tell my reflection quietly. "So act like it."
Her blue eyes stare back at me, tired but burning.
I splash water on my face, brush my teeth, pull my curls back into a messy ponytail. I drag on leggings and an oversized hoodie, stealing one of Mom's fuzzy socks because my toes feel like ice.
By the time I head downstairs, the house smells like coffee and pancakes.
"Morning, baby," Mom says, turning from the stove with a spatula in hand. She looks less wrecked today. Still tired, but…steadier.
"Morning," I mumble, sliding onto a stool at the island.
Gali is already there, cheeks puffed with food, scrolling on her phone.
"You and your little vampire boyfriend were loud last night," she says with her mouth full.
"Gali," Mom warns.
I choke on air. "He's not a vampire," I say. "And we were not loud."
She raises a brow. "Girl, I could feel the sexual tension from my room. Walls were vibrating."
"I hate you," I mutter.
She grins. "Love you too."
Mom sets a plate of pancakes in front of me, then slides in beside Michel, who's scrolling through emails on his tablet like the fate of the world depends on how fast he can type.
He looks up when he feels me watching.
"How's my favorite troublemaker?" he asks.
"You have other troublemakers?" I ask.
"Yes," Gali says immediately. "Me."
"True," he concedes.
I take a bite of pancake. It tastes like vanilla and cinnamon and home.
"I'm…okay," I say slowly. "I didn't freak out last night. That's progress, right?"
Mom's eyes soften. "That's huge," she says.
"Any burning?" Michel asks casually.
Gali kicks him under the table. "Dad."
He winces. "What? We said we'd be direct."
I stare down at my plate. My throat feels thick.
"No burning," I say quietly. "No glass. No lighter. Just…me."
There's a pause.
Then Michel nods, something like pride flickering across his face.
"Good," he says. "Keep it that way."
"We're still getting you that therapist," Mom adds gently. "Dr. Kora has a cancellation this week. I booked it. You don't have to talk about anything you don't want to. But…maybe it'll help to talk to someone who isn't a boy with more hair product than sense."
"Hey," I say automatically, defending Rowan on reflex.
Gali snorts. "You're in deep, sis."
I shove a piece of pancake into my mouth just so I don't have to answer.
Therapy.
The word feels heavy. Scary. Like if I say yes, it means everything that happened is worse than I'm letting myself believe.
But I think of the empty drawer.
Of Rowan's face when he saw the scars.
Of the way my mom held me in that hospital, whispering Not even you.
"Okay," I say, surprising even myself. "I'll go."
Mom's shoulders sag with relief. "Thank you," she whispers.
Gali leans her head on my shoulder. "We can get ice cream after," she offers.
"Bribery," Michel mutters. "Classic Galilea."
"It works," she shoots back.
I let their voices wash over me, a soft background hum. For the first time in a long time, the idea of asking for help doesn't feel like admitting defeat.
It feels like choosing to stay.
Again.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Rowan: Morning. You okay?
I stare at the message for a second, then type back.
Me: I enjoy your warmth and I swear I want to go but I can't.
Three dots appear.
Rowan: …Is this a poetic way of saying you miss me in your bed?
I snort into my orange juice.
Me: I meant I want to run away from everything. But I'm still here.
There's a longer pause this time.
Rowan: Good. Stay. I like you here.
Me too, I think.
Even if it scares the hell out of me.
I pocket my phone and finish my pancakes.
The day stretches ahead of me—school, stares, whispers, the mural, the empty drawer, the therapist, Rowan's arms, my own shadows.
I enjoy his warmth, and I swear I want to go, but I can't.
Not because something is holding me back.
Because, for the first time, I'm choosing to stay put.
And maybe that's what healing really is.
Not a phoenix rising from flames in one dramatic moment.
But a girl sitting at a kitchen island, eating pancakes with her messy, loud, imperfect family, texting the boy who almost lost her and learning how to want tomorrow.
Even when it hurts.
Even when she's scared.
Even when she still doesn't know exactly what love feels like.
Yet.
But she's starting to.
One warm, terrifying, beautiful morning at a time.