Page 77 of All's Fair In Love & War

I wanted to rage. To scream. To claw at his face. To curse him out and storm off to find my lost dignity, but what I actually did was collapse back on my heels, edging away from his reach, humiliation burning up my cheeks, shame coiling around my throat tighter than his fingers had been.

Khalil didn’t say anything for a heartbeat, just knelt until we were level, eyes burning into mine. Then he did the last thing I expected. He wrapped me in his arms, pressed my head to his chest, and held me. Not tight, not to hurt or restrain, just firm enough that I couldn’t fold up and vanish into the floor. I could feel his heartbeat, steady where mine was frantic, and I didn't hug him back, but my forehead pressed harder against his chest, a surrender my words would never allow.

I hated how safe it felt. How easily I melted into the cage of his arms, letting his steady heartbeat trick my scrambled brain into thinking I belonged here… with him. For the first time in maybe my whole fucked-up life, I felt lighter with someone holding me, not heavier.

But that only made me angrier.

I hated that he still wanted to hold me, even like this.

After about a minute, I tried to push him away. “You like seeing me like this, huh?” I screamed, voice hoarse. “Does it make you feel needed? Maybe you think you can fix me?”

He didn’t let me go, only shifted his weight so I couldn’t squirm away as he said, quiet but clear, “No.”

“Well, that’s what you’ll be doing as long as you keep me. I’m weak, and I can’t be left alone for five minutes without crawling back to my old shit.”

“You’re not weak. Stubborn—but not weak,” he said it was like a goddamn fact.

I looked up at him, ready to tell him to fuck off before he could say more.

“You should let me fall?” I whispered.

Khalil shook his head once. “Not a fucking chance.”

And that was the moment I broke, for real this time. Because part of me wanted him to walk away. To leave me to the vices I knew. But the part that stayed quiet most of the time? The part that wanted something real, so I leaned in and let myself be held.

“I see you. You want a fix? Fine. But you’re not getting it from a pill. You’re getting it from me,” he said, like another demand. Like a challenge.

I tried to laugh, but my mouth trembled. “That’s not how it works.”

“It does for me.”

He let me go, only to sit cross-legged right in front of me on the closet floor, like we were seven instead of two adults. He held out his hand, offering me comfort, and I stared at it like it might bite me.

“Take it,” he said, quieter, but somehow more commanding.

So I did. My palm landed in his, and it was so much bigger than mine, so much steadier. His thumb traced little circles onthe back of my hand. It was so gentle, it undid me more than any choke or slap or filthy word ever had. I tried to look away from his face, to pull my hand back, but he wouldn’t let me.

He let us sit just like that, the two of us mute and folded in on ourselves, until the heat burning behind my eyes cooled off. I could hear myself breathing, and the old trembling in my chest slowed, almost matching the rhythm of his thumb, lazily looping over my skin.

At some point, I started crying, really ugly tears, and I mean a snot-and-mascara-mix, blotchy, hot mess, and Khalil didn’t cringe from it. He kept running his thumb over my knuckles, his eyes never leaving me, even when I tried to turn away and hide.

When the jagged, dry-heave sobs died down, he finally spoke. “You can keep faking with everyone else, but you don’t get to lie to me.”

His voice wasn’t soft, though his words weren’t gentle, nor were they comforting. They were honest, and he cut through the bullshit, leaving just me and him and all the fractured, leaking pieces between us.

I hiccuped, wiped my nose with the back of my wrist, and tried to steady my voice. “I don’t need you to save me.”

“Good. Because I don’t want to be your fucking savior.”

“Then what do you call this?” I asked and paused, letting the question sit between us like a weighted bag of dope.

For a minute, it looked like maybe he wouldn’t answer. Maybe he didn’t know, or maybe he was trying to decide if he was willing to say the truth out loud.

Finally—“I’m the only one who's not scared of all your ugly shit. I want the real you, the nasty shit and the pretty shit, even when you can’t stand it yourself.” He squeezed my palm in his. “Especially then.”

The words hit me in the solar plexus. I didn’t know how to process such direct acceptance. For a long time, I just sat there, letting my head throb and my chest cool until I could see straight. When I finally pulled my hand away, I didn’t do it to escape. I did it to wipe my face, properly this time, and then I managed to look him in the eye.

“If you want the real me, you better be prepared,” I said, surprised by how steady I sounded, even with my heart still cracked open and leaking.

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