Tabitha’s POV

His shirt soaks up my tears. I feel the calm and steady rise and fall of his breathing, as if he’s anchoring both of us. His arms stay around me, not too tight, but firm enough that I don’t feel like I’m falling apart alone.

I desperately clutch at his shirt with both fists, barely noticing the boxing gloves still on my hands. And he let me. He doesn’t shift away or tell me to pull it together. He just holds me, without pity or performance, only a steady presence that keeps me from falling apart.

How ironic. The last person I thought I’d ever lean on is...