Safe sound

 

POV: Chrysler Davii

The dull, thumping ache in my lower abdomen morphs into a white-hot knife. I bite down on the inside of my bottom lip until I taste the sharp, metallic tang of blood, squeezing my eyes shut to block out the world.

Don't make a sound, my mother’s voice screams inside my head, loud and relentless, drowning out the gentle hum of the heater. 'Look at you, whining over a little stomach ache! You're just lazy, Chrysler. You eat garbage, you gain weight, and then you cry like a baby when your body rebels. Nobody wants to hear your dramatic whining.'

I force my breathing to stay shallow. I tuck my hands under the warm electric blanket Simone placed over me, pressing my knuckles deep into my pelvic bone, desperately trying to numb the sharp waves of PCOS cramping that are tearing through my insides. The fatigue hits right behind it—a terrifying, sudden weight that makes my eyelids feel like lead and my mind spin into a dizzy haze.

Beside me, the car shifts into gear.

Simone doesn't drive back toward the main highway. Instead, his sports car glides smoothly down a side road, the headlights cutting through the descending mountain dark until we pull into the parking lot of a brightly lit 24-hour pharmacy.

"Simone..." I whisper, my voice raspy, fighting against the heavy haze of pain. "We need to get to the next state... we're losing time..."

He doesn't answer immediately. He shifts the car into park, unbuckles his seatbelt, and turns toward me. In the dim glow of the dashboard lights, his hazel eyes aren't filled with the annoyance I’ve spent my whole life expecting. There’s no eye-roll, no sigh of frustration. Instead, his face is tight with an intense, quiet gravity.

He reaches across the console, his large, calloused fingers moving softly to trace the red mark on my lower lip where my teeth had been digging in. His touch is so light, so achingly tender, it makes my breath catch in my throat.

"Stop biting your lip, Chrysler," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, velvet rasp. "You don't have to punish yourself for being in pain."

Before I can swallow the lump in my throat, he opens his door, steps out into the crisp night air, and walks briskly into the pharmacy.

I slump back into the leather seat, staring at the bright green neon sign of the store. A hot tear slips past my lashes, tracking down my cheek. I wait for the shame to consume me, but the sheer physical exhaustion pulls me under, making every breath feel like a battle against my own body.

Less than ten minutes later, the driver's side door opens. Simone slides back inside, carrying a small pharmacy bag. He sets it in his lap and immediately turns off the main interior light, leaving only the soft, warm ambient glow of the dashboard.

He doesn't say a word. He just works.

He opens a pack of adhesive thermal heating wraps, peeling back the backing until the air-activated warmth begins to radiate from the pad. Next, he unscrews a bottle of water and pops open a fresh blister pack of targeted pain relief pills, setting them within reach.

"Lean forward for me," he instructs softly.

"Simone, I can do it—"

"Chrysler," he cuts in, not with anger, but with an absolute, unyielding authority that leaves no room for my stubborn defense mechanisms. "Lean forward."

I swallow hard and slowly shift forward. The pain flares violently in my lower back, making me let out a tiny, involuntary whimper.

Instantly, Simone’s hand is there. He reaches behind me, his large palm steadying my waist while his other hand gently lifts the back of my heavy sweatshirt. He doesn't look at my skin with judgment; he doesn't pause at the soft curves of my waist. He moves with a quiet, reverent focus, carefully pressing the warm heating pad directly onto the small of my back, right where the nerve pain is radiating hardest.

The instant, penetrating heat makes me shudder, a ragged breath escaping my lungs.

"Better?" he asks quietly, adjusting my sweatshirt back down.

"Yes," I whisper, my throat tight.

He reaches into the bag, handing me the water and two pills. I take them without argument, swallowing the medicine as he cap of his thermos and fills it with fresh, steaming herbal tea he must have had the pharmacist brew or sourced from the hot-water dispenser inside. The scent of lavender and ginger drifts through the dark cabin.

He waits until I take a few slow sips, the warm liquid soothing the sharp knot in my stomach. But he isn't done.

Simone unbuckles his seatbelt, steps out of the car, and opens the rear passenger door. He reaches into the front, pulling the lever to recline my seat completely flat, before leaning down over me.

"Come here," he says softly.

My eyes widen through the haze of pain. "What?"

"You're cramped up in the front seat. Move to the back."

Without waiting for my brain to process his words, he hooks one strong arm beneath my knees and the other behind my shoulders, effortlessly lifting me out of the front passenger seat. I gasp, clutching the neck of his shirt instinctively. He shifts me into the wide, plush leather backseat, sliding in right behind me so that he’s sitting against the far door, pulling my back directly against his broad, solid chest.

"Simone..." I choke out, completely overwhelmed. "What are you doing? I'm too heavy for this... you don't have to—"

"Quiet," he commands gently, wrapping his massive arms around my waist. He takes the soft heating blanket and drapes it over both of us, swaddling me against him like a protective cocoon.

He rests his chin lightly against the top of my head. His chest is a wall of radiating heat, solid and unshakeable behind me. One of his large hands comes to rest flat over my stomach, right over the heating pad, pressing a gentle, firm warmth into my core that counteracts every painful spasm tearing through my muscles.

He doesn't handle me like a burden. He handles me like I am made of delicate, irreplaceable glass.

Then, he reaches for his phone on the center console and taps the screen.

A low, deep frequency soundscape fills the car—a slow, atmospheric arrangement of soft piano notes, ocean swells, and gentle cello strings. It’s a low-frequency instrumental playlist, designed to slow a racing pulse and quiet a chaotic mind.

"This is our safe sound," Simone whispers into my hair, his breath warm against my crown. "Every time you feel overwhelmed, every time the noise gets too loud... this is what we play."

I lie completely still in his arms, paralyzed by the sheer impossibility of the moment.

My whole life, love has been conditional. My mother loved me only when I made myself small, when I starved myself, when I hid my pain so I wouldn't inconvenience her. Williams wanted me only for what my mind could do for his grades. I had learned to navigate the world as a ghost, surviving entirely on my own, building thick, impenetrable walls to protect a broken heart.

And now, here is Simone Liverpool—campus god, billionaire heir, a guy who could have anyone in the world—holding a chubby, grieving, sick girl in the back of his sports car in the middle of nowhere.

He didn't wait for me to beg. He didn't ask me to explain. He just saw that I was breaking, and he stepped in to catch the pieces.

The realization hits me like a physical blow. A single sob tears free from my throat, silent and chest-heaving, followed by another. Tears stream freely down my cheeks, soaking into the cotton of his shirt right at his collarbone.

Simone doesn't pull away. He doesn't tell me to stop crying. He just tightens his grip around my waist, pulling me closer until there is zero space left between us, his thumb making slow, soothing circles over my hip.

"Let it out, Chrysler," he murmurs, his voice a steady anchor in the dark. "I'm not going anywhere. You're safe."

I press my face deeper into his collarbone, crying for the loss of my father, crying for the cruelty of my mother, and crying for the girl who spent so many years believing she was unworthy of being taken care of.

Beneath my cheek, I can feel the steady, slow thump-thump, thump-thump of Simone's heart. It’s a rhythmic, powerful beat, matching the low notes of the music humming through the speakers.

Slowly, as the pain medication takes hold and the soothing heat of the blanket wraps around my limbs, the sharp edges of my exhaustion begin to smooth out. My heavy breathing syncs with his. My eyes grow heavy, the safe sound washing over me like a warm tide.

For the first time in four months, the grief in my chest doesn't feel like it’s going to drown me. For the first time in my life, I am not fighting alone.

Wrapped in Simone’s arms, listening to the steady beat of his heart, I finally fall fast asleep.