The Walls That Crumble

Travis’s POV

Some people build walls to keep others out.

Sophia Moreau?

She builds them so high even she can’t see over them.

And yet, tonight—just for a moment—she let me inside.

I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.

I wasn’t the guy who stayed.

I wasn’t the guy who gave a damn about what kept people up at night, what ghosts haunted them, what made them run themselves into the ground just to avoid their own thoughts.

But Sophia?

I was starting to realize I cared too much.

And that was dangerous.

She had fallen asleep hours ago, curled up on the couch, her breathing even, her body finally giving in to the exhaustion she had been fighting for days.

I hadn’t meant to stay.

But the moment she had whispered stay—that quiet, unguarded moment—I knew I wasn’t walking out that door.

Not tonight.

Not when she had finally let herself need something—even if it was just my presence.

So I stayed.

I sat in the armchair across from her, one leg stretched out, my fingers absently tracing the rim of the glass of whiskey I had poured myself an hour ago. I hadn’t touched it.

Because I wasn’t thinking about whiskey.

I was thinking about her.

The way her body looked too small against the massive couch.

The way her hands were still curled into fists, like she wasn’t used to letting herself relax, even in sleep.

The way her breathing hitched every once in a while, like her subconscious was still fighting something I couldn’t see.

And fuck, if that didn’t do something to me.

I had never seen Sophia Moreau without her armor.

She was always composed, calculated, ruthless. The woman who walked into a boardroom and commanded the room before she even said a word.

But tonight?

Tonight, she looked human.

And it was wrecking me.

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, watching her.

What had made her like this?

What had turned her into the kind of woman who pushed herself to the brink just to prove she could?

I knew about the accident. Everyone did.

But knowing the facts and understanding them were two different things.

And right now?

I wanted to understand.

A soft noise pulled me from my thoughts.

Sophia shifted slightly, her breathing changing, her fingers twitching against the blanket.

A second later, her eyes fluttered open.

For a moment, she looked lost.

Disoriented.

Like she had forgotten where she was.

Then her gaze found me.

And something in her body eased.

Not completely. Not entirely. But enough.

She blinked slowly, rubbing a hand over her face, her voice rough from sleep.

“You’re still here.”

I tilted my head, smirking slightly. “Told you I would be.”

She exhaled, letting her hand drop to her lap, her fingers gripping the blanket. “I actually slept.”

Something in my chest tightened.

She sounded shocked.

Like it was something that almost never happened.

I didn’t know whether to be relieved or fucking furious.

I kept my voice steady. “Yeah. You did.”

Her gaze flickered to the clock on the wall. It was almost three in the morning.

She let out a slow breath, looking down at her hands.

“I didn’t dream,” she murmured.

I didn’t think she had meant to say it out loud.

But she had.

And now, I wasn’t sure I could pretend like I hadn’t heard it.

I leaned back, stretching my legs out in front of me. “That a rare thing?”

She didn’t answer right away.

When she did, her voice was quieter.

“You have no idea.”

Something in my stomach twisted.

She wasn’t telling me everything. Not even close.

And I had a feeling she never told anyone everything.

That realization did something to me.

Because I wanted to know.

I wanted to be the one she told.

The one she let in.

And I had no fucking clue when that had started mattering so much.

She pulled the blanket tighter around her, her posture tense again, her walls building back up with every passing second.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “Sophia, when’s the last time you actually let yourself rest?”

She gave me a wry look. “Define rest.”

“Not this.” I gestured to her, to the exhaustion still lingering in her eyes, to the way she was clearly running on fumes. “Not working yourself to the point of collapse. Not pretending you’re fine when you’re not.”

She let out a humorless chuckle. “I don’t pretend, Cole.”

I arched a brow. “Really? Because from where I’m sitting, you’re putting on one hell of a show.”

Her jaw tightened. “I don’t need a lecture.”

“I’m not lecturing you.” My voice was sharper than I intended. “I just—” I exhaled, trying to rein myself in. “I just don’t get why you do this to yourself.”

Her gaze turned cold. “Because no one else is going to do it for me.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

She said it like it was a fact. Like it was something she had accepted a long time ago.

And for the first time, I realized—

She wasn’t just choosing to be alone.

She had convinced herself that she had to be.

That no one was coming.

That no one cared enough to stay.

My chest felt too tight.

I exhaled slowly, forcing my voice to stay even.

“I’m here now.”

She went still.

Her fingers clenched tighter around the blanket.

Then, in the softest voice I had ever heard from her—

“For how long?”

Fuck.

Something inside me cracked.

Because she really didn’t believe it.

Didn’t believe that anyone stayed.

Didn’t believe that anyone wanted to.

And I suddenly hated every person who had ever made her feel that way.

I stood up, closing the distance between us in two slow steps.

She stiffened, but she didn’t pull away.

I crouched in front of her, resting my arms on my knees, looking straight into her eyes.

“As long as you need me to be.”

Something flashed across her face.

Something raw.

Something vulnerable.

Something terrifying.

She swallowed, looking away. “I don’t need anyone.”

I reached out, brushing my fingers against hers—just briefly. Just enough.

“Maybe not,” I said softly. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t want someone here.”

Her breath hitched.

And I knew.

I fucking knew.

This was the moment.

The moment that changed everything.

Because I wasn’t walking away.

Not tonight.

Not ever.