Page 102 of Closer

Lilian

“Lil? Jesus Christ, Lil!” Strong hands grip my shoulders, shaking me.

I blink, the haze receding. Green eyes swim into focus. Sebastian.

“Hey, hey. Look at me. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

I’m shaking, sobs wracking my frame. He pulls me into his chest, his arms banding around me like a shield.

“Shh, I’ve got you. It’s okay. Breathe.”

I cling to him, my face buried in the crook of his neck. Warm. Safe.

Slowly, the tremors subside, my breathing evening out and embarrassment replacing the horror in a hot wave. I push away from him, swiping at my tear-stained cheeks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t.” His voice is rough. “Don’t apologize. Not for this.”

I lower my gaze, shame smoldering within me.

“Talk to me,” he says.

“I don’t want to.” I get up, wrapping my arms around myself. A paltry shield, but it’s all I have.

“Okay. We don’t have to talk. But I’m here, alright?”

He’s being so gentle, so understanding. It makes me want to crack open, spill all my secrets at his feet.

But I can’t. Because soon enough, he’ll leave, like everyone else. Like last time.

“I think I’m going to head to bed.” I already back away toward the hallway.

“Wait—”

But I’m already gone, fleeing to the safety of my room like the coward I am. I burrow under the covers, squeezing my eyes shut against the hot press of tears.

Sleep. I need to sleep. Maybe in the morning, this will all feel like a bad dream.

But, of course, sleep doesn’t come. I toss and turn for hours, the blood on the floor playing on a loop behind my eyelids. The sewing machine. The voices. Sebastian’s face.

Maybe a glass of water will help. Or a sleeping pill. Something, anything, to quiet the noise in my head.

I’m halfway to the kitchen when a voice stops me in my tracks.

“Couldn’t sleep either, huh?”

I whirl around, my heart leaping into my throat. Sebastian’s sprawled on the couch, a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. He’s stripped down to a white t-shirt and low-slung sweatpants, his hair mussed like he’s been running his fingers through it 10,000 times.

“You scared me,” I say.

A ghost of a smile flits across his face. “Sorry. Thought you heard me.”

“I was… distracted.”

“Mmm.” He takes a sip of his drink, eyes never leaving mine. “Nightmares?”

I don’t answer. Can’t. He sees too much, this man. Knows me too well.

“Come here.” He pats the space beside him.

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