Chapter 28

BRANDON’S POV

I stood outside her door longer than I should have.

The hallway was dim, quiet—the house already asleep except for a distant ticking clock and the faint creak of the old wooden floor beneath me. I could’ve turned back. Given her space. Let the night end the way it had, with her asleep on the couch, safe in my arms. But I’d carried her to bed once she dozed off and now, hours later, I couldn’t sleep myself. Not until I heard her say it with her own voice. That she was truly okay. That she didn’t just collapse into me because it was easier than standing.

I knocked gently. “Freya?”

A few seconds passed. Then, softly: “Come in.”

I pushed the door open, slowly. She was sitting up in bed, blanket pulled over her knees, hair still damp from her earlier shower and tumbling over one shoulder. She looked both young and incredibly strong in the low light, like someone recovering from a storm but not broken by it.

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. “Couldn’t sleep.”

She offered a small, tired smile. “Me neither.”

I crossed to the armchair by the window, but she shifted to the side and patted the bed. “Just sit here. It’s fine.”

Carefully, I did. Not too close, but not distant either. Just close enough to hear her breathing, to see the guarded flicker in her eyes.

“I wanted to check on you,” I said. “After earlier…”

She nodded slowly, eyes dropping to the blanket. “I’m okay. Really.”

I watched her for a beat. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it to make you feel better,” she replied, looking up again. “I’m saying it because it’s the truth.”

I believed her. Mostly. But something still lingered behind her eyes—something deeper than fear. A decision maybe. A fire.

“I thought he was going to do something crazy for a second back there,” I admitted, my voice quieter than I meant. “When I saw Bryan… and you… I haven’t felt that kind of anger in years.”

“You didn’t lose me,” she said firmly. “Not even for a second.”

I met her gaze. Her eyes were steady now, clear. The kind of clarity that comes after something shakes you to the core and you decide—consciously—not to let it define you.

“I know I keep asking if you're alright,” I said, “but it’s because I—”

“Brandon.” Her voice was soft but unwavering. “I’m not a porcelain doll.”

I blinked, slightly caught off guard. “I never said you were.”

“No. But you treat me like one sometimes. Like I might crack if you say the wrong thing or if I’m too close to something sharp.”

Her words weren’t cruel. They weren’t even accusatory. Just honest.

“I’ve seen the way you carry other people’s weight,” she continued. “Your employees. Kyle. Your family. You build this fortress around everyone you care about, and you stand in front like a shield. And that’s... beautiful. But I’m not asking you to shield me. I’m asking you to let me stand next to you.”

That silenced me.

I stared at her, trying to find the right thing to say. But all I could think about was how often I’d tried to protect her by keeping her in the dark. By distancing her from the parts of my life I didn’t want touching her. All with good intentions. But maybe that was the problem.

“You don’t owe me that,” I said quietly. “You didn’t sign up for this war, Freya.”

She laughed under her breath. “Are you listening to yourself? I’m already in it. I’ve been in it the moment you let me into your world. You don’t get to decide that for me now.”

I looked down at my hands, the veins taut under my skin, the faint tremor I hadn’t noticed until now. “I’ve fought dirty battles. I’ve ruined people who tried to ruin what I’ve built. And I’ve kept you away from that part of me because I didn’t want it to harden you.”

She shifted closer, not quite touching, but enough that her presence became the only thing anchoring me.

“I’m not afraid of being hardened,” she said. “I’m afraid of being left behind.”

That hit harder than anything else tonight.

“I’ve lost people, Brandon. People I thought would stay. People who looked me in the eyes and swore they cared and then bolted the second it got uncomfortable.” She paused. “You’re not like them. I know that. But I need you to stop treating me like I’m temporary.”

“I don’t—” I started.

“You do. You try not to, but you do. You protect me with space. And I get it. I really do. But I’d rather get hurt fighting beside you than be safe in a place where I don’t get to choose.”

My chest tightened. Not from guilt—but from the weight of knowing she was right.

“I don’t want to lose you or the baby,” I admitted. “And I think... deep down, I’ve convinced myself that if I let you too close to the darker sides of all this, I might.”

She reached out and took my hand. Not delicately—firmly. “Then let me choose to stay.”

I looked at her fingers laced through mine, at how effortlessly her hand fit in mine. Like it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there.

“I want you beside me,” I said finally, my voice rough. “I just didn’t know how to ask for that without feeling like I was dragging you into a fire.”

She smiled, soft and certain. “Maybe I was already walking toward it. I just needed to know you’d hold my hand while we walked through it together.”

I let out a slow breath, the kind that felt like it came from somewhere deep and tangled inside me. Then I tugged her hand gently and guided her until her head rested against my shoulder.

We sat there in silence for a while. No masks. No posturing. Just a man and a woman in the middle of the night, letting the weight of the world rest for a moment while we held onto each other.

“You know,” she murmured, half-asleep, “you didn’t have to come to my room to say any of that.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But I wanted to.”

“You always know when I need to hear something.”

“Not always,” I said. “But I’m learning.”

She chuckled softly, and the sound eased something sharp inside me.

“You scare me sometimes,” I said. “Because I know if I lose you, it’ll ruin me.”

“Then don’t lose me,” she whispered. “It’s that simple.”

I pulled her closer. “I won’t.”

And for the first time in a long time, I meant it not as a promise—but as a vow.

Not just to protect her.

But to stand beside her.

To let her fight with me.

To finally stop pretending she was someone I needed to keep in the light when she’d already proven she could walk through the dark.

And maybe—just maybe—light it up with me.