Listen to Hold On by Chord Overstreet.

The minutes stretched, each second more unbearable than the last. The cold hallway felt suffocating. I couldn't shake the knot in my chest, the gnawing feeling that if I were only inside that room with her, I could make everything okay. I could hold her trembling hand, smooth her wild, tangled hair, and whisper every tender word I could remember—anything to reassure her that she wasn't alone. But instead, I was pacing, agitated, running my hands through my hair as though I could physically push the panic away.

My legs ached from the restless movement, each step driven by an impulse I couldn't control, an urgency that felt like it might tear me apart if I stopped. The image of her, battered and bloodied, haunted me with every breath. I could still see it—her face, swollen, unrecognizable. The tears that soaked my pillow that night didn't come close to matching the pain I felt in that moment.

My hand clenched into a fist, nails digging into my palm, leaving indents that I couldn't feel but knew would be there forever. Every fiber of me wanted to hurt the man who'd done this to her, to make him suffer the way he'd made her suffer. I didn't care about the law, about what was right or wrong. If I ever got my hands on him, I would make him regret the day he ever thought he could touch her.

The cops were still searching for him. They had footage, a blurry profile of a man, a nameless, faceless monster. They'd identified him as a homeless man, a divorced wreck of a human being, with a criminal record as long as my arm. None of that mattered. I didn't care who he was or what he'd done. All I could think about was her—how terrified she must've been, how alone, how vulnerable.

I glanced over at Mrs. Gallardo, her face wet with tears, her hands clutching a rosary like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. Her whispered prayers felt like a distant echo in my ears, but I couldn't find comfort in them. I hadn't seen Mr. Gallardo since I arrived. I couldn't shake the thought that maybe Belvina's mother blamed me for this—maybe it was my fault. I'd been the one who left her unprotected, the one who never imagined the worst could happen. 

I looked away from her as the doctor approached us. I was already in front of the him demanding an explanation for what happened.

"She had a panic attack," the doctor said, his voice quiet, measured. "We sedated her for now. I believe she's experiencing some sort of trauma. I'll arrange for a psychiatric consult." His words were soft, professional—as if the news were somehow routine. As if he saw this kind of thing every day.

I could barely process it. My stomach twisted into a knot, and I felt an anger burn through me, thick and sour. I wanted to shake the doctor, to demand that he do more, do anything. But he walked away without even a second glance, leaving me standing in the hallway, empty, unsure.

My gaze flickered to Mrs. Gallardo, tears falling from her eyes in silent streams. Her face, pale with grief, reflected a depth of sorrow I couldn't even begin to understand. It felt like the doctor had just told her that Belvina was slipping away from us—like the words had sucked the life from her.

I should've gone to her. I should've said something to comfort her. But the words wouldn't come. How could they? How could I tell a mother I was sorry for something that had been entirely my fault? I was supposed to protect her daughter. But instead, I had left her vulnerable, helpless... almost dead. 

The ICU had been a blur of beeping machines and sterile walls. Belvina had been unconscious for days, surrounded by wires and tubes, her body hooked to a ventilator just to breathe. The nurses had explained it to me like I could understand, but all I saw was her—pale, fragile, broken. Her body was broken in so many ways—bones fractured, skin torn and bruised. 

The trials to extubate her had been agonizing, each one a tiny battle. But when the doctor had told us she was breathing on her own yesterday, it was like a breath I didn't realize I was holding had finally escaped. The relief had been a soft relief, tinged with the knowledge that it wasn't over yet. She was still sedated, drifting in and out of a haze, but she was breathing on her own now. The doctor had even said she was showing great signs of recovery—though his words did little to chase the heaviness in my chest. She was still so fragile. But she was fighting. And I'd do anything to make sure she won.

I walked into her room, closing the door quietly behind me as if I could protect her from everything outside. I took a seat beside her, my heart sinking as I looked at her again. She was broken in ways I could never have imagined.

I took her hand in mine, feeling how small and delicate it was, and kissed her palm. It felt like the only thing I could offer in this moment.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice cracking.

I gazed at her face—the bruises, the cuts, the swollen left eye that was somehow spared from permanent damage, though it looked like it should have stolen her sight forever. I couldn't stop staring at her, willing myself to memorize every inch of her. Her soft face. Her lips, cracked and swollen. The lightest freckles still visible beneath the shadow of the swelling.

Her thigh, wrapped in thick bandages, made me sick to my stomach. How could someone—anyone—do this to her? How could someone be so cruel, so capable of taking something so beautiful and destroying it? My chest tightened, my heart pounded in my ears, and I leaned down to press my lips against her hand again, as if my love could somehow heal the violence done to her.

My Vixen.

I reached over and gently stroked her hair, the familiar warmth of her soft curls bringing an ache to my chest. Over and over again, I whispered apologies to her, as if my words could somehow undo the nightmare that had become her reality. My phone vibrated in my pocket, jarring me from the moment. I didn't want to answer it, didn't want to think about anything beyond the fragile woman lying in front of me. But the weight of my brother's funeral still hung over me, a grim reminder of responsibilities I couldn't escape.

I had begged Andrew to help with the funeral arrangements, pleaded with him until it had been the only option left. He'd agreed, though reluctantly, and now I had to deal with the consequences of being pulled in a thousand directions. I stood up, moving to the corner of the room to answer the call. 

"What's up?" I asked, my voice low, strained.

"Why do you sound like you swallowed a frog?" His tone was teasing, but I could hear the concern under it.

"Not the right time, Andrew," I rasped, running a hand over my face. The exhaustion was settling deep in my bones, but the guilt and the anger—toward myself, toward the world—made it impossible to rest. "What's happening?"

"The date's fixed," Andrew said. "The funeral's on Saturday. Think you can make it?"

I glanced over at Belvina's small form on the bed, the bruises and cuts still so fresh on her skin. She looked so delicate, as if the slightest touch could break her. And yet the man who had done this had shown no mercy, no hesitation. I felt the anger bubble up again, sharp and relentless. I couldn't stop myself from imagining the worst ways to make him pay for this.

"I don't know, bro," I replied, my voice tight. My eyes traced every dark mark on her face, and the pit in my stomach deepened. "I don't know if I can leave her like this."

There was a long pause before Andrew spoke again, softer now. "How is she?"

"Traumatized," I sighed, feeling the weight of the word more than I wanted to admit. The word seemed so inadequate, so hollow, for everything she was going through.

"She'll pull through. She's a Vixen, after all," Andrew said, trying to offer me a thread of comfort. I managed a small, bitter smile at that.

The door to the room creaked open, snapping my focus. I barely had time to register it before Chloe's head poked around the corner, her smile softening the tension in the room when she saw me. Tristan wasn't with her today, which meant she'd come alone—probably because Tristan had business to deal with. He'd been juggling the company, the twins, and everything else. Chloe, on the other hand, had been here every day, sitting with Belvina, offering her own quiet strength.

"Keep me updated, I'll call you later," I told Andrew, cutting the call before he could respond.

Chloe slid into the room, settling down beside Belvina's bed with a quiet sigh. Her gaze flickered between me and the still form of Belvina, worry clouding her expression.

"She still hasn't woken up?" Her voice was soft, but there was an edge of concern to it that I could feel in my bones.

"She did," I replied, sitting down beside them both again. "But she had a panic attack, so they had to sedate her."

Chloe's eyes softened, and she reached out, brushing a lock of Belvina's hair from her face as if trying to smooth away the pain. "How are you?" she asked gently, but there was a sharpness to her words as she looked at me. "Please tell me you've eaten something."

I shrugged, not bothering to hide the emptiness in my voice. "I had coffee."

"Coffee?" she repeated, her eyes narrowing with disbelief. "That's it? Look at you, you're a mess. Have you even slept? Showered? Oh my God, look at your eyes. I don't know who looks worse between you and Vina."

I couldn't help but smile a little, even though it felt like the effort took more than I had to give.

"Go home, Adrian. Eat something, shower, and get some sleep. I'll call you when she wakes up, I promise."

I opened my mouth to protest, to argue that I couldn't leave her. But Chloe beat me to it, her voice firm, unyielding. "Uh-uh, you don't have an option," she said, cutting me off before I could say anything else.

I hesitated, eyes flicking back to Belvina's pale form in the bed, but in the end, I just nodded. "Fine, but make sure you keep your promise," I said, a hollow plea that even I didn't believe.

I left the room, stepping out into the hallway where Mrs. Gallardo was waiting. Her face was a mask of grief, and she didn't spare me so much as a glance. 

"She will be fine," I said, my voice thick. "Can I get you anything to eat?"

Her response was curt, cold. "No."

I nodded, not sure if I was relieved or hurt by her dismissal, but I didn't press her. I turned and walked to the elevator, the weight of the world pressing down on me with every step. 

The pounding in my temple had returned, sharp and relentless. I'd taken painkillers earlier, but they had only dulled the ache for a brief while. Now, it was back, relentless, crawling behind my eyes and pushing into my skull like a vice. 

I didn't go home, not like Chloe suggested. I'd taken a quick shower in the private bathroom at the hospital this morning, but the thought of going home to an empty house was unbearable. 

Instead, I walked to my car. The night air hit me like a wave as I stepped outside, but it didn't bring relief. It only made the weight in my chest heavier. I got into the car and closed the door, the quiet of the vehicle enveloping me like a shroud. I grabbed the bottle of water I kept in the cup holder and swallowed two pills, hoping it would dull the pain in my head—though I knew it wouldn't make a difference. I laid back in the seat, closing my eyes in the darkness. But there was no escape.

Her bruised face was all I saw, the image seared into my mind like a brand. I could hear her screams, echoing in my head as if they were happening all over again. The sound of her voice breaking, the fear—the terror—that had bled through the phone that night.

I kept my phone clutched in my hand, waiting for Chloe's call, the one thread of hope that still held me together.

***

It was 3 a.m. when Chloe's call woke me, her voice cutting through the fog of sleep.

"She's awake."

Those three words shattered the haze of exhaustion I'd fallen into. I could barely process them as I fumbled to open the car door, my mind already rushing ahead of me. I barely remembered to brush my fingers through my hair, trying to look somewhat presentable, though I was sure I probably looked like a maniac on the loose.

I ran into the building, my heart pounding in time with the sound of my shoes against the floor. I didn't care about anything else. Nothing mattered except getting to her.

When I reached her room, Mrs. Gallardo was sitting next to the bed, her head bent in prayer, murmuring softly in Spanish. Belvina, her face pale but peaceful, held her hand with her eyes closed. I couldn't help but pause for a moment, just watching them. It was a sight that calmed something inside me—a small piece of hope that she was fighting through this, that she was still here, still with us.

Chloe stood at the foot of the bed, her head slightly bowed, her eyes warm as she looked at Belvina, her face soft with affection. When the prayer ended, we all murmured an "Amen" together. Mrs. Gallardo spoke to Belvina in gentle Spanish after that, words I couldn't quite catch but that Chloe clearly understood. From the way Chloe smiled at them, I could tell she was saying things that were meant to comfort, to reassure.

After a moment, Mrs. Gallardo stood up, a small smile on her face as she looked at Belvina, who gave her a soft, almost painful nod in return. She glanced at me as she walked toward the door, her eyes flicking to my face for only a second.

"You should eat something," she said quietly, her voice unexpectedly gentle. "You look emaciated."

I didn't respond, just nodded, the weight of her words sinking in. I hadn't even realized how bad I looked until then. But then, Mrs. Gallardo was gone, and it was just me and Belvina again. Chloe gave me one last glance before turning to the bed, walking over and pulling Belvina into her arms like she was a child.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Chloe said softly. "Take care, and be strong, okay?"

Belvina smiled at Chloe, weak but genuine. Chloe pulled away, her voice barely above a whisper as she glanced at me.

"She's all yours," she said with a teasing smile. "Pamper her all you want."

I chuckled softly, my chest tightening with something I couldn't quite name, and then I was alone with her.

I sauntered over to the bed, sitting down carefully in the chair closer to her, needing to be near her. She gave me a weak smile, and her small, warm hand cupped the side of my face. I closed my eyes and leaned into her touch, savoring the soft comfort it gave me.

"She's right," Belvina said, her voice faint but steady. "You look horrible. Like ugly beyond recognition."

I laughed, low and soft, my chest tightening in a way that felt like relief. 

"Well," I said, my smile growing far too wide, "you look beautiful." The words came out too bright, like I was trying to convince myself more than her, but I didn't care. I needed to see her smile, needed to hear her voice again.

Her hand was still on my face, warm and real, and I held it there, unwilling to let her pull away.

"Can I get you anything?" I asked, my voice almost desperate to do something for her, to make her feel better. 

"Always so thoughtful," she whispered, her voice barely a breath. "I'll eat something... if you agree to have some rest."

I blinked, caught off guard by her suggestion. 

"Deal," I said softly.

"Now rest your head," she urged, her hand pulling away from my face. "Or you can sleep on the couch. I'll eat when you wake up."

The couch. It seemed so far away, so distant. The thought of being separated from her, even by a few feet, felt like a mountain I couldn't climb. I chose the bed, not even hesitating. I laid my head down beside her, the warmth of her body close enough to feel her pulse, the steady rhythm of her breathing like a balm to my restless heart.

I studied her face—the pale skin, the faint bruises—and wished I could understand what was going on inside her head. What she was feeling. What she needed.

"Sleep," she whispered, her hand reaching out to stroke my hair, the motion so gentle it almost made me shiver.

"What are you gonna do while I'm sleeping?" I asked.

"I'll watch TV," she replied with a small, sleepy smile. "Now sleep."

And like a spell, I obeyed. The exhaustion caught up with me, the weight of everything I'd been holding back crashing down. But before I let myself fall completely into the darkness, I made a quiet promise to myself: I'd talk to her about therapy tomorrow. I'd ask her, gently, if she wanted to go through with it. But for now, I just needed to be here. To hold her, to protect her, and to let her know she wasn't alone.

  ***

It was the soft whimper that jerked me awake. Belvina was squirming in the bed, sweat glistening on her forehead, her face contorted in discomfort. Her body trembled as she gripped the sheets, her lips moving in frantic, incoherent words. She seemed to be struggling to scream, her breaths ragged, shallow.

"Vixen?" I called softly, my voice rough from sleep. I reached over, shaking her gently, desperate to pull her from the nightmare that had a grip on her. "Vixen, it's me."

Her eyes fluttered open slowly, and when they locked on mine, her breath hitched. The panic that flashed across her face made my heart tighten in my chest.

"Get away from me!" she gasped, her voice shaking as she shoved me away. She scrambled to the edge of the bed, her whole body trembling.

"Vixen, it's me," I repeated, my voice low and steady, trying to ground her, to remind her I was here. Her eyes softened, the panic fading just enough for her to recognize me. She exhaled sharply and buried her face in her palms, her small shoulders shaking.

"Bad dream?" I asked, moving closer. I sat beside her, my arms sliding around her in a comforting embrace. She didn't say anything at first, but slowly, her tense body relaxed against mine. I stroked her back, feeling the steady rhythm of her breathing start to return to normal.

"I keep seeing him," she whispered, her voice breaking on the words.

I kissed her head softly, my hand gently running through her hair, soothing her as much as I could. "Maybe therapy will help," I suggested quietly, knowing she wasn't ready to hear it but needing to say it anyway.

She pulled away from me slightly, her brow furrowing with a displeased look. "I'll get over it," she said flatly, her voice distant. "I just need some time."

I opened my mouth to argue, to tell her she didn't have to go through this alone, but before I could say anything, there was a knock on the door. She looked at me with a small, relieved smile and whispered, "Please come in."

Her friend Brandy and Jacob stepped inside, their presence filling the room with a momentary reprieve from the tension. Jacob had a bouquet of flowers in his hands, and Brandy followed him in with a small gift bag from a popular bakery.

"I knew it would take a lot more to kill someone like you," Brandy said with a playful smirk, though her eyes softened when she looked at Belvina. I wanted to be offended by her remark, but when I saw Belvina laugh softly, I couldn't help but join in.

"Hey Belle, how are you?" Jacob asked, placing the flowers on the side table, his voice gentle as he looked at Belvina. 

"Alive," Belvina replied, the lightness in her voice enough to make him smile.

"I'll get you something to eat," I said, standing up. She nodded without protest, and Jacob gave me a firm, appreciative smile as I walked to the door.

On my way to the restaurant, my phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out to find a call from the sheriff's department.

They'd got him.

I wanted to drive straight to the police station, to see the man who had done this to her, to make him feel every ounce of the rage I'd been holding back since the night of the attack. The idea of seeing him, of being so close to him, made my fists clench. I knew it would take every ounce of control to not tear into him, to not make him feel the full weight of what he'd done. But I couldn't go there. I needed to stay away, to let the cops do their job, to let them lock him up and keep him there.

By the time I got back, Brandy and Jacob were gone. A nurse was in the room with Belvina, replacing her empty IV bag with a new one. I didn't want to interrupt, so I stood back for a moment, watching as the nurse worked.

"Can we go for a walk?" Belvina asked, looking up at the nurse.

The nurse smiled but shook her head. "Your leg isn't fully healed yet, and I'd like to work with physical therapy first."

Belvina sighed, frustrated. "When can I leave... like, go home?"

"It's not mine to decide," the nurse replied, still smiling. "But when you're better, I'm sure you'll be allowed to leave."

"Why doesn't the hospital have Netflix?" Belvina asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "If I'm gonna be stuck here, at least there should be some kind of entertainment."

The nurse chuckled, fighting back a laugh. "ABC has some interesting shows," she said.

"Ignore her," I said to the nurse, and Belvina shot me a playful glare. I winked in return. The nurse smiled and left after asking if we needed anything.

"Where's my phone?" Belvina asked, adjusting the head of the bed with the control pad so she could sit up a little more comfortably.

"Probably in my car," I replied, taking a seat next to her. I dragged the small side table closer and set the food I'd brought her down.

"Well, can I have it?" she asked, her voice a little more demanding now.

I paused, remembering the state it was in when I got it from the cops. Her bloody fingerprints still marked the screen. Brandy had called a few minutes after I received it, wondering why Belvina hadn't shown up for work.

"Why are you suddenly so fussy?" I teased, opening the takeout bag and pulling out the salad and grilled salmon I'd gotten her. "You can use my phone. Yours is probably dead anyway."

"I want fries and chicken nuggets," she muttered, but she took the food anyway, her eyes narrowing as she poked at the salad.

"You need healthy food," I said gently, my tone serious. "You're still healing. I promise I'll buy you all the fries and chicken nuggets you want once you're better."

She rolled her eyes but smiled slightly. "So, what did I miss? My mom told me I've been sleeping like a koala since I got out of surgery. How did it go with your brother?"

 "The funeral is this Saturday," I said softly, avoiding her gaze.

"You're going, right?" she asked, her voice steady but searching. "It's in two days."

I stayed silent, feeling the weight of her gaze on me as she waited for a response.

"Please don't tell me you're ditching your brother's funeral to babysit me," she sighed. "You should go, Parker. I'll have my mom and Chloe if that's what you're worried about."

I wanted to ask her what about her nightmares? What about the terror she was still carrying? But I knew she wouldn't want to talk about it right now. I couldn't force it.

"I'll leave on Saturday morning and come back once the funeral is over," I said quietly, hoping she would accept it.

"Don't rush it because of me," she added, her voice soft but firm. "And please, make sure you kick Andrew out of the plane on your way back."

I smiled, a genuine, albeit small, smile, and nodded. "I will."

***

As expected, my sisters didn't show up for the funeral. It wasn't a surprise, not really. I had barely expected them to care. What caught me off guard, though, was how many people actually came to pay their respects. It seemed like my brother had known more people than I had ever imagined. Some faces I didn't recognize, some that I knew only by reputation. All of them here for him. It felt like a strange sort of homage, a reminder that even the most broken people leave a trail behind them.

I stayed a few hours after the ceremony, long enough to say my goodbyes in my own way, before catching the next flight back home. Andrew had decided to stick around in New York for a while longer. 

When I got back late that night, Belvina was asleep, her breathing steady, but I could tell by the way my body tensed the second I sat down that something was off. I leaned back in the chair, trying to get some rest, but it was impossible. The ache in my bones from the funeral, the stress of the past weeks, and the worry over her, over us, was too much.

Then came the soft cry—so small, so delicate, but it was enough to snap me out of whatever trance I had been in. Belvina was thrashing in the bed, sweat coating her forehead as she twisted her body in a desperate attempt to escape whatever nightmare was tearing at her. My heart twisted in my chest as I rushed to her side.

"Vixen, wake up... it's just a dream," I whispered softly, brushing the hair from her forehead. She didn't push me away like before, didn't recoil in fear. Her eyes opened slowly, wide and unfocused at first. But then she looked at me, her body still shaking, and she wrapped her small arms around me, holding me so tightly I could feel the frantic thudding of her heartbeat against mine.

I stayed there with her, cradling her against me, until her breaths started to steady, until her body finally relaxed into sleep again. I didn't care that I was exhausted. I didn't care about anything but her right then.

The next morning, she complained about being deprived of sunshine, and I knew she needed it. I took her out for a walk around the hospital grounds, wheeling her in a wheelchair. But it didn't matter. I needed her to have something to hold onto, something that wasn't just fear or pain. I told her about the funeral, about Andrew, about my sisters being nowhere to be found. She listened, silent, but I could see the flicker of understanding in her eyes. She didn't say much, but she didn't need to.

We stayed another week in the hospital before the doctors declared her ready to leave. I was relieved, but at the same time, a sense of dread crept up my spine. My body ached from the terrible sleep in that chair by her bed, and my eyes were heavy from the long nights, filled with her nightmares that only seemed to get worse, though she refused to talk about them.

When we finally walked through the front door of my place, I wanted nothing more than to collapse on the soft couch and shut the world out. 

She looked better, physically. The marks on her face were healing, but the reminders were still there—the bruises, but had started to fade. I hoped, with everything inside of me, that those scars would remind her of one thing and one thing only: she was a survivor. And that's what I needed her to see.

She went straight to the shower after we got home, without a word. I thought about leaving her be, giving her space, but something inside me urged me to check on her, just to make sure she was okay.

I found her in the bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror. Her face was tight, her features hard, as if she were staring into the reflection of someone she didn't recognize. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, and I saw that dark look in her eyes again—the same one that had flickered when she'd been lost in that nightmare, the one I'd seen when she first came to in the hospital.

I approached slowly, my steps cautious, unsure of how she might react. I didn't want to intrude, but I couldn't let her shut me out completely.

"You look beautiful," I whispered, stepping behind her and wrapping my arms around her shoulders. She stiffened for a moment, but then, slowly, her body relaxed. "You survived, Vixen. You're so brave. I'm not sure I would've fought as hard as you did."

She didn't say anything for a long moment, and then, without a word, she pulled away from me. She walked to the shower, still silent, her back to me. The door slid shut with a soft click, and I stood there for a few seconds, feeling that familiar ache in my chest.

 The funeral, her recovery, her nightmares... I didn't know how to fix it all.  All I could do was be here. All I could do was wait for her to come back to me in her own time.

I left the bathroom, heading to the living room, feeling the familiar tension settle in my bones. Tomorrow, I had to go back to work. I had to help Tristan with the company, with the mess I'd left behind while I'd been here. I wanted to be here for Belvina, to be the one who could comfort her, but I couldn't abandon everything else either.

***

The nightmares kept getting worse. Each night, Belvina would wake up screaming, her body trembling as though she were caught in a storm of terror that wouldn't let go. I'd reach for her, and she'd push me away, retreating to the edge of the bed, curling up in a ball like a fragile thing, afraid of everything, even me. It hurt in ways I didn't know how to explain. And the next morning, the silence was suffocating. Gone were her snarky remarks, the playful jabs, the teasing banter that used to fill the air. In its place was an emptiness I couldn't fill.

I tried to bring up the idea of therapy one evening, but the moment the word left my mouth, her eyes hardened, and she went quiet. After that, she ignored me for the rest of the day, a coldness hanging between us. I wanted to ask Chloe to come over, maybe talk to her, but I knew Belvina. If I pushed her too hard, she'd shut down completely, and I didn't want to drive her further away.

One night, I woke to the sound of retching. At first, I thought I might still be dreaming. But then, I realized—no. It was real. I turned my head, finding the space beside me empty. My heart raced. I shot out of bed and followed the sound of her distress to the bathroom. There she was, kneeling in front of the toilet, vomiting violently, her body wracked with spasms.

I knelt beside her, my hand gently patting her back, hoping somehow to offer comfort. The sound of her sickness seemed to echo in the silence of the house, and I felt helpless, completely useless.

Once she finished, she flushed the toilet and stayed on the floor, her breathing ragged and shallow. I quickly went to get her some water and grabbed a paper towel to wipe her mouth. She drank the entire bottle, but still didn't move. I sat beside her, wrapping my arms around her. Her body gave way to the grief she'd been holding in for so long. She broke down in my arms, her sobs racking her small frame.

I wiped away her tears, unsure of what to say. How could I fix this? What was the right thing to say when I was just as lost as she was?

"I want to see my mom," she whispered after a long, broken silence. "I just need a few days with my family."

Her words struck me like a punch to the gut. I couldn't help but feel like I wasn't enough, like I was failing her in ways I didn't even know how to begin fixing. But there was nothing to do but nod and whisper, "Ok."

"Can we go now?" she asked, her voice shaking as she pulled away from me, her eyes pleading, raw with a desperation I hadn't seen before. 

"Sure," I said quietly, helping her to her feet, though I knew I was only offering a temporary escape from whatever darkness was inside her.

She told me she had clothes over there, but she only threw on a hoodie over her pajamas before we left. It was well past midnight, the city outside quiet and still as I drove, the hum of the engine filling the silence between us. Belvina didn't speak, and I didn't push her to. The air was thick with everything left unsaid, the weight of everything she was carrying too much for words.

I wanted to reach out, to tell her everything would be okay, but it felt like such a hollow promise. I wasn't sure that anything would be okay, and I didn't know how to help her find the peace she so desperately needed.

She called her mom as we neared their house, her voice so small on the phone, so fragile. When we arrived, Mr. and Mrs. Gallardo were already waiting outside. Belvina didn't even wait for the car to come to a full stop. She opened the door and rushed toward them, her legs unsteady as she practically collapsed into their arms.

I stood there, frozen for a moment, watching the three of them embrace. I wanted to move, to say something to Belvina, to ask if she was coming back, but I couldn't find the words. She turned to look at me as she pulled away from her parents, and the strained smile she gave me hit me harder than I expected. She didn't say anything, not a single word.

"Thank you," Mr. Gallardo said quietly, looking at me with gratitude in his eyes.

I nodded at him, swallowing the lump in my throat, and watched as they entered the house. The door closed behind them, and I felt a hollow emptiness settle in my chest.

I stood there for a moment longer, my heart heavy with all the things I couldn't fix, with the knowledge that no matter how much I wanted to be there for her, some part of her would always need something more than I could give.

"She will come back," I whispered to myself, trying to convince myself more than anything. "Relax, Adrian."

But even as I said the words, I wasn't sure I believed them.