Chapter 7

Erik’s POV

It’s strange how quickly you can get used to silence.

My apartment, once a place of deliberate solitude, now carries the faint sound of footsteps that aren’t mine. The soft clink of a teacup. The creak of the balcony door opening at odd hours. Her presence is light—like she’s trying not to disturb anything—but I feel it everywhere.

Kim’s careful.

Not just in how she walks or moves, but in how she exists. Like she’s apologizing for taking up space. Like she’s expecting to be punished for it.

That’s the part that gets me most.

I’ve seen abuse victims before. Too many. But none of them have ever lodged themselves into my chest the way she has. Maybe it’s the way she looks at the world—like it’s a place she’s only visiting, never really welcome to stay.

Maybe it’s because she never cries in front of me. Even when she’s clearly on the edge. She just presses her lips together, holds her breath, and swallows it all down like poison she’s used to.

And I hate that. I hate what that says about what she’s been through.

She shouldn’t have to be strong right now. She should be allowed to break.

But she won’t—not yet. Maybe not ever.

When she agreed to see the psychologist, I didn’t let it show how relieved I was. I just nodded, played it cool. But something in me unclenched.

I knew what that small step had cost her. It’s not just therapy—it’s trust. And after what’s been done to her, trust should be the last thing anyone expects her to give.

She still jumps when the kettle whistles. Still flinches if I walk into a room too quietly. She tries to hide it, but I see it. I see everything.

And every time, I remind myself: slow. Gentle. Consistent.

Not because I think I can fix her. I can’t. But maybe I can be the kind of man who doesn’t make her worse.

It’s the morning of her first session. She’s already dressed when I knock gently on the bedroom door. I don’t open it—I just speak through the wood.

—“We’ve got twenty minutes if you want to eat something first.”

No answer.

I give her time.

When she finally comes out, her eyes look heavier than usual. She hasn’t slept, I can tell. But she’s wearing the same hoodie and jeans she always does, sleeves tugged over her wrists, chin dipped low. It’s her armor. I don’t touch it.

—“You ready?” I ask quietly.

She nods.

No small talk. No pretending she’s okay.

We ride in silence.

She stares out the window most of the drive. I don’t push conversation. I just glance her way every so often, checking if she’s still breathing evenly. She is. Barely.

When we pull up to Dr. Merrin’s office, she doesn’t move.

Her hands grip the seatbelt like it’s the only thing anchoring her.

—“Hey,” I say gently. “You don’t have to say anything once we’re inside. Just walk in. Sit down. That’s enough.”

She nods again.

But her knuckles are white.

When she finally unbuckles, I get out and walk around to her side. She doesn’t need help, but I stand nearby anyway, letting her set the pace.

Inside the waiting room, it’s warm. Soft lights. Neutral colors. Calming music that’s probably designed to lower blood pressure. It almost works.

She sits, curls in on herself like she’s trying to shrink. I stay standing.

Dr. Merrin opens the door right on time. Middle-aged. Calm eyes. No perfume. She looks at Kim like she’s seen her before, even though I know this is their first meeting.

—“Kim? I’m Dr. Merrin. You can come in whenever you’re ready.”

Kim stands. Doesn’t speak. Just walks in, stiff and quiet.

She doesn’t look back at me.

I sit. Wait.

The session lasts fifty minutes.

That’s all.

But in that time, I think I age ten years.

I keep wondering what she’s saying in there. If she’s saying anything at all. If she’s crying. If she’s sitting in silence, like she did the first few days in my apartment, eyes wide and lost.

Part of me wants to storm in and sit beside her, just so she knows she’s not alone. But I don’t. That would only take her voice away—and she deserves to use it on her own terms.

When the door finally opens, she steps out with a blank expression. Her arms are folded tightly, and her mouth is set in a line. She walks past me without a word.

I thank the doctor and follow her out.

It’s not until we’re in the car, doors shut and seatbelts clicked, that she finally speaks.

—“She asked if I blamed myself.”

Her voice is almost a whisper.

I glance at her, but don’t interrupt.

—“I told her I didn’t know. That... sometimes I think I was just stupid. For not running. For staying.”

I grip the steering wheel a little tighter.

—“You weren’t stupid,” I say quietly. “You were surviving.”

She doesn’t respond. But she closes her eyes. And for the first time since we got here, I see her shoulders drop slightly.

Back at the apartment, she retreats to the bedroom almost immediately. I let her.

Some wounds don’t scream. Some just whisper, endlessly, in the back of your mind.

And I’m learning that being here—really being here—means sitting with those whispers, too.

I make dinner. Something simple. She doesn’t eat much, but she takes a few bites, and I count that as a win.

Later, I hear the bedroom door open. Bare feet against the floor. She hesitates in the hallway, then steps out onto the balcony where I’m drinking lukewarm coffee.

She stands beside me. Doesn’t speak. Just looks out over the lights.

After a few minutes, I murmur, “Proud of you today.”

She doesn’t look at me. But her voice is soft when she says, “Thanks for waiting.”

And that—those four words—they mean more than I can say.