Page 20 of Angel
“We don’t have to decide that today,” I reply. “One thing at a time.”
Her breathing slowly evens out. We move to the couch. She leans into me like she remembers how. I tuck her in against my side without thinking.
Her sister brings a blanket, drapes it over her shoulders, and gives me a nod that says more than words. After a while, Stevie speaks again.
“I think I need help.”
The words are soft. But they’re seismic. I don’t react big. Don’t jump, nor say I told you so, just nod.
“Okay.”
She looks up at me.
“You’re not… disappointed?”
“Fuck no,” I say. “I’m relieved.”
Something eases in her chest at that.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to stop trying.”
“That’s alright,” I tell her. “Help don’t mean surrender. It means support.”
She nods slowly. “Will you come with me?”
“Every step.”
She rests her head on my shoulder.
“I don’t want to go home yet.”
“That’s alright,” I say. “We’ve got time.”
I mean it. For the first time in weeks, I actually mean it. Because this…. this is what fighting looks like. Not engines and fists and blood, threats and territory and dominance. Just showing up, taking the hit, and staying.
I kiss the top of her head and hold her tighter. Whatever this road looks like? I’m ridin’ it with her. No more standing back, no more silence. No more watching her burn from a distance. We step into it together.And this time? We don’t let go.
Chapter Seven
Stevie
When Angel leaves later that afternoon, the house doesn’t feel empty in the same way. He doesn’t say goodbye like it’s a crack forming. Doesn’t hesitate in the doorway or look back like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he blinks too long. He just kisses my forehead, rests his warm palm against my cheek, and tells me to text him when I’m ready.
Then he walks out like this isn’t an ending. It’s a pause. That difference matters more than I expect it to.
I sit on the couch for a long time after, fingers wrapped around a mug that’s gone cold, staring at nothing in particular. My chest still aches from crying. My eyes burn. My head feels heavy and hollow at the same time.
But the tight, panicked knot that’s been living just under my ribs for weeks… It’s quieter now, not gone but just quieter. Thesilence in the room doesn’t feel like an accusation anymore. It feels… neutral. Like it’s waiting to see what I do next.
My sister moves around the kitchen, giving me space the way she always has, close enough to catch me if I fall, far enough not to crowd me. She sets a plate of toast down beside me like it’s no big deal.
“You want butter or jam?” she asks casually.
“Butter,” I say, surprised to hear myself answer at all.
She nods, slides the butter dish closer, and leaves it at that. No comments about calories, no questions about macros, and not a single raised eyebrow about supplements. Just toast. I pick up a piece and spread butter on it. My hands don’t shake this time. The smell is warm and ordinary. I take a bite. It tastes like nothing and everything all at once.
Food feels foreign lately. Like my body doesn’t know what to do with it unless it’s measured and counted and logged. But the toast settles warm in my stomach, and I don’t immediately think about progesterone levels or inflammation or anything else that’s been living in my head rent-free.
