Afterlight (Fanfiction) ✓

chapter fourteen

Chloe

THE stay at Dean's house was a blur, a kaleidoscope of misplaced trust and creeping regret. What was I thinking, believing I could lean on someone after just one day? I'd been used before—trusted before—and each time, it had left me hollow. But I was desperate to see good in people, even when their intentions glinted sharp like hidden knives. Dean's kindness had felt genuine at first, but now it felt like a trap, one I had willingly walked into.

Justin was outside the bathroom door, pacing, his concern bleeding through the silence. I leaned against the sink, my reflection in the mirror almost unrecognizable with red-rimmed eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. I didn't want him to see me like this. Vulnerable. Weak. That wasn't who I was supposed to be.

"Talk to me," Justin murmured through the door, his voice low and careful, like he was trying not to startle me. "I know you're not showering. Please, open the door."

I sniffed and grabbed another tissue, dabbing my eyes and nose before tossing it into the trash. Slowly, I approached the door, resting my forehead against the cool wood. For a fleeting moment, I imagined he was doing the same on the other side.

"I'm coming out," I said shakily. My fingers fumbled with the lock before twisting the knob. When the door creaked open, Justin was there, standing so close that I could see the faint tremor in his jaw. His cheek was bruised, his knuckles raw and bloodied, but it was his eyes that undid me—filled with worry, unspoken questions, and something I couldn't name.

My breath hitched, and before I could stop it, fresh tears spilled down my face.

"Come here," he murmured, his voice as soft as the pull of gravity. He opened his arms, and though I hesitated, the warmth of his presence drew me in. I fell into his chest, my sobs muffled by the fabric of his shirt. It was soft, smelled like him—something clean and earthy—and as his arms wrapped around me, I felt a small fragment of safety slip into place.

He rubbed my back gently, his touch steady, as though he were grounding me. I winced when I realized how wet his shirt had become. "I'm sorry," I mumbled, pulling back slightly, but his hand stayed firm on my shoulder.

"Come with me," he said, guiding me toward the kitchen.

Before I knew it, he had lifted me effortlessly and set me on the countertop. I blinked, bewildered, as he moved to the freezer and pulled out an ice pack, wrapping it in a towel. When he came back, instead of treating his own wounds, he pressed the makeshift ice pack lightly against my eyes. His touch was gentle, careful.

"Don't cry," he whispered, his honey-brown eyes locked onto mine. "I'm sorry."

I swallowed hard. "I know you are," I murmured, taking the ice pack from his hand. I pressed it to his bruised cheek instead. He needed it more than I did.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, his voice softer now, though his eyes never stopped watching me.

I shook my head, unable to trust my voice. The tears were relentless, spilling over despite my attempts to stop them.

"Julia," he said, my name breaking on his lips. He sighed, the sound heavy and tired, but his arms wrapped around me again, holding me close as I cried. His shirt would be ruined, but he didn't seem to care.

When the tears finally ebbed into quiet sniffles, I pulled back. His face was still bruised, his hands a mess of open wounds. I slid off the counter, but he caught my hand, his grip gentle but firm.

I met his gaze and squeezed his hand, reassuring him. "I'm not leaving," I said softly, and he let me go.

I grabbed the first aid kit from a nearby cabinet and returned to him, taking his battered knuckles in my hands. I cleaned and bandaged each cut with quiet concentration. His skin was rough, calloused, but there was a warmth to him that made me linger.