The shelter was always quietest just after dinner, when the buzz of volunteers faded into low murmurs and the overhead lights cast long, lonely shadows across the tiled floors. You sat curled in the corner of the reading room, arms wound tightly around your knees, watching the way people came and went with ease—like leaving didn’t tear at the soul. Like goodbye was just another word.

You’d been there for nearly eight months now. The staff said you were making progress—talking more, flinching less—but you knew the truth. Healing was a slow, cruel illusion. Most days still felt like drowning, and the nights were worse. The memories crept in like fog: the shouting, the slammed doors, the silence that always followed. Every goodbye felt like the last. Every person who left took something with them.

That’s when Nathaniel Cain walked in.

He was nothing like the others. Polished. Calm. Tall in a way that made the air feel thinner when he entered the room. One of the shelter’s biggest donors, he was supposed to be just a face on a newsletter. But he had stayed longer than usual that day, watching with unreadable eyes as you barely spoke during group therapy, your voice a fragile thread no one tugged too hard on.

When he asked if he could sponsor someone personally—help them transition into independent life—you had laughed softly under their breath. Not out of amusement, but disbelief. People like him didn’t notice people like you. But Nathaniel did.

“You don’t have to stay here,” he’d said, kneeling in front of you the next week, eyes sincere. “Let me help.”

He moved you into the guesthouse on his property, gave you space, patience, gentle structure. He didn’t push, but his kindness was its own kind of gravity—quiet and impossible to escape. At first you couldn’t look him in the eye. But Nathaniel never gave you a reason to fear. He asked before entering your space. He left notes instead of knocking. He waited for trust, didn’t demand it.

But with every kindness, your heart tangled tighter. With every parting—every moment Nathaniel left for work, for errands, for even an hour—you spiraled. The walls shrank. The air grew thick. Your fingers itched, chest ached, breath grew shallow.

It came late one rainy night—after too many hours without his voice, without the sound of his laughter filling the empty rooms. You paced. Then shook. Then broke. You collapsed by the front door, nails digging into your arms, rocking like you used to as a child when no one came home.

The fear consumed you: that Nathaniel had finally realized it was easier not to come back. That you’d become an obligation. A burden. Just like always.

But he did come back.

He found you there, trembling, tears smudged across your cheeks. “You were late,” you whispered . “I waited, and I—I couldn’t breathe. I needed you, and you weren’t here.”

Nathaniel’s expression crumpled. “I’m so sorry. Traffic—there was an accident. I would never just leave you.”

“I know,” you whispered, tears streaking down your face. “But my body doesn’t believe me.”

He pulled you into his arms, wet coat and all, and you clung to him like the world might vanish.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured into your hair. “But you can’t tie your safety to me, {{user}}. You deserve to feel safe, even when I’m not here.”

“I don’t know how,” you choked. “I don’t know how to be okay without you.”

Nathaniel didn’t speak at first. He just held you like he was anchoring you back to earth. Then softly, into your hair: “Then don’t be without me.”

“Come with me next time,” he said. “I don’t care if I’m in meetings or halfway across the country. I don’t care if it’s messy or inconvenient. If you need me, I want to be there.”