Chapter 19: The Apology
The deep, liquid comfort of sleep began to recede, replaced by the solid warmth of Marcus’s chest and the heavy, safe weight of his arm around her. For one perfect, hazy moment, Lily-Anne existed in a blissful void where nothing was required of her. Then, like a cold sip of water, consciousness returned.
Her thumb was still in her mouth. The blanket was tucked to her chin. She was curled like a child on the lap of a man she’d known for a handful of days.
The realization detonated in her nervous system.
She jerked upright as if shocked, scrambling off his lap so abruptly she nearly stumbled. The blanket puddled at her feet. Button fell to the floor with a soft plop. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird in a cage.
“Oh god. Oh, I’m so sorry.” The words tumbled out, brittle and too loud in the quiet workshop. She couldn’t look at him. She stared at the frayed edge of the rug, her arms wrapping tightly around herself. “I fell asleep. I didn’t mean to—I got too comfortable. That was… that was too much. I’m so sorry.”
She was babbling, her face burning with a shame so acute it felt like a physical burn. The memory of the hardware store, of his hand around hers, of saying that word—Little—it all crashed over her, not as peace, but as a towering wave of exposure. He had seen every fragile, ridiculous part of her.
“You must think I’m so weird. Or clingy. Or… something.” Her voice cracked. She took a step back, creating more distance. A barricade of empty air.
Marcus had watched her flight without moving. He didn’t try to grab her. He slowly leaned forward in the chair, his elbows on his knees. His expression was unreadable in the dim light.
“Lily-Anne.” His voice was calm, a rock in the churning sea of her panic.
She flinched at the sound of her full name. Of course. The little moment was over. The adult had returned, awkward and shameful.
“Look at me.”
It was soft, but it wasn’t a request. It was a quiet command that bypassed her racing thoughts. Her gaze flickered up, meeting his. She braced for annoyance, for pity, for the polite dismissal she knew was coming.
She saw none of those things. She saw only patience, and a weary kind of understanding that seemed etched into the lines around his eyes.
“Come here,” he said, not moving from his chair. He held out his hands, palms up, just as he had in the parking lot.
She shook her head, a tiny, frantic motion. “I can’t. I shouldn’t have—”
“You can.” He interrupted her gently but firmly. “And you should have. Because you needed to.” He kept his hands extended. “Now, come here.”
It was the steadiness in him that undid her resistance. It was too solid to fight. On trembling legs, she took one step, then another, until she stood before him. She didn’t take his hands. She just stood there, shaking.
He reached out and took them anyway. His palms were rough, warm, and they completely enveloped hers, stilling their nervous tremor. He didn’t pull her closer. He just held them, anchoring her to the spot.
“Listen to me,” he said, his voice low and intent. “You never have to apologize for being who you are with me. Not for needing comfort. Not for feeling safe. Not for being little.” He squeezed her hands. “Not ever. Do you understand?”
She searched his face, looking for the lie, the hidden limit, the conditional clause. She found only a stark, simple honesty. The tears that had been building spilled over, silent and hot. She tried to pull a hand away to wipe them, but he held fast.
“I mean it,” he continued, his thumbs stroking over her knuckles. “What you’re feeling right now? The shame? The fear that you’ve shown too much? That’s what they taught you. That’s their voice in your head. It’s not mine. My voice says you were perfect. You were brave. And you’re allowed to rest.”
A sob broke loose, a ragged, hurting sound. The dam holding back years of whispered criticisms and cold dismissals shattered. Her knees buckled.
He was ready. In one smooth motion, he guided her down, not back onto his lap, but onto the rug at his feet. He released her hands only to slide his arms around her, pulling her into the space between his knees, her back against his chest. He surrounded her completely.
“Let it out,” he murmured into her hair. “I’ve got you.”
And she did. She cried with the unselfconscious desperation of a child, her body shaking with the force of it. She cried for the past loves who had called her needs a burden. She cried for the years spent hiding Button’s sock like a criminal hiding evidence. She cried for the sheer, terrifying relief of being held through it, of a hand rubbing firm, slow circles on her back that said I’m still here, of a chin resting on the top of her head that said This changes nothing.
He didn’t shush her. He didn’t tell her it was okay. He just let the storm tear through her, his presence the only constant. The workshop absorbed the sounds, the velvet chairs and wood shavings muffling her grief.
Slowly, the sobs subsided into hiccups, then into shaky, uneven breaths. She was exhausted, hollowed out and strangely light. She leaned her full weight against him, her head lolling back against his shoulder. He reached over and retrieved Button, placing the rabbit back into her limp hands. Her fingers closed around the familiar fur automatically.
“Better?” he asked after a long while, his voice a quiet rumble against her back.
She nodded, a small movement. She felt scraped raw, but clean.
“Good.” He shifted, wrapping the discarded blanket around her shoulders from behind, a cocoon within the larger cocoon of his arms. “Now, here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to sit here until you feel steady. Then, I’m going to make us some terrible instant hot chocolate on the hot plate because I have no milk. You’re going to drink it, even if it’s watery. And then, you’re going to tell me about your day at the bookstore. The ordinary stuff. What books came in. If the cat knocked anything over.”
The mundane roadmap of the next hour was a lifeline. It didn’t ask for more vulnerability. It asked for simple recovery. It was caretaking in its most practical, gentle form.
“Okay,” she whispered, her voice rough from crying.
They sat in the quiet. Her breathing eventually slowed to match his. The panic had receded, leaving behind a profound, weary calm. The words Not ever echoed in the new silence he had created, a protective mantra.
Later, with the too-sweet, slightly gritty hot chocolate warming her hands, she told him about Mrs. Pembroke, the elderly regular who only read nautical histories, and about the box of vintage cookbooks that had smelled of cinnamon. He listened, nodding, asking small questions, his earlier stern tenderness replaced by a simple, undemanding focus.
When she finished her drink, he took the mug from her. “Feel like finishing your dragon?”
She looked at the coloring book, still open on the low table. The green dragon watched her. It did look brave. And kind.
She nodded.
“Go on, then.”
She settled back onto her spot on the rug, pulling the blanket around her. She picked up a golden-yellow crayon for the flower in the dragon’s claw. The rhythm of coloring, the simple act of staying within lines, grounded her further.
Marcus returned to his workbench, this time with a small chisel and a block of pale wood. The tapping of his mallet was soft, percussive, a companion sound to the scratch of her crayon.
An hour passed in peaceful industry. As the last of the daylight bled from the high windows, she held up the finished page. The dragon’s flower was a bright, buttery sunburst.
“All done?” he asked, setting his tools down.
“Mhm.”
“It’s beautiful. You have a real eye for color.” He stretched, the muscles in his back and shoulders shifting beneath his shirt. “I should get you home before it gets too dark.”
The mention of home, of leaving this sanctuary, sent a faint tremor of anxiety through her. It must have shown on her face.
“Hey,” he said, walking over and crouching down to her level. “This doesn’t stay here. You take it with you. This?” He gestured between them, then gently tapped her chest, right over her heart. “This is yours now. It goes where you go.”
She believed him.
As she packed Button into her satchel, he spoke from by the door, his tone deliberately casual. “So. The hardware store ran out of the sandpaper I like. Gotta try the big box store across town tomorrow after work. It’s a zoo on a Tuesday. All the contractors. Really busy, confusing aisles.”
He paused, pulling on his jacket. He didn’t look at her. “Could really use a helper to hold my hand. Keep me from getting lost.”
The invitation hung in the air, light and open. No pressure. Just a simple statement of need.
Lily-Anne zipped her bag, the sound loud in the quiet. She looked at the finished dragon, then at the man waiting by the door, his kind, tired eyes watching her with a flicker of fond amusement.
She smoothed her sundress and took a steadying breath.
“What time,” she asked, her voice clear, “should I be here?”