Chapter Fifty: Wounds

She came in looking wounded, hurt in a way that went far deeper than the swelling in her hand. Daniel had been quick to press a bag of ice into her palm, but even as she held it against bruised skin, he could see the real injury wasn’t there.

It was in her eyes.

Those warm brown eyes he’d seen at their most defiant, most guarded, most teasing—now rimmed red, glistening with something raw. They were the eyes of someone who had just had the ground pulled out from under her, who had been holding too much for too long and finally cracked.

Daniel’s chest tightened at the sight.

She sat on the edge of his sofa like she was afraid it might swallow her whole. Shoulders tense, back too straight, the kind of posture that screamed she was barely holding herself together. He had seen people come into his office like this before—clients who had lost everything, who carried invisible wounds alongside their paperwork. But seeing Marissa this way? It hit differently. It rattled something in him.

He didn’t ask right away. He knew better than that. Instead, he sat at the coffee table while she sat at the sofa, ice on her hand.

“It was stupid,” she said suddenly.

“I’m sure it wasn’t,” he replied quietly. His tone wasn’t coddling—just steady. He adjusted the ice in her hand, his thumb brushing her wrist. He tilted his head, studying the bruise. “Don’t think anything’s broken.”

“Got a medical degree to go with that fancy Ivy League law degree?” she shot back, her voice wobbling somewhere between sarcasm and exhaustion.

He smirked. “No, but let’s just say I got into enough scraps back in the old neighborhood.”

“Yeah? And where’s that?”

There it was, the deflection. Smooth, quick, practiced. She didn’t want to talk about why she’d hit the wall, didn’t want to talk about Olivia or the hollow ache that followed her here. So she changed the subject.

Daniel saw it. He’d done it himself a thousand times.

“South side of East LA,” he said anyway, leaning back a little, giving her room. “I was a pretty mouthy guy, so had to learn how to back up my talk.”

She smiled and leaned back, “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

He moved to sit down next to Marissa, she was looking good, despite the hurt hand, the puffy eyes which said she’d been crying before she got here. “Want to talk about why your hand hurts?”

“Do we have to?” She asked him.

“I think it’s important.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him, eyes wild, gleaming with something that wasn’t quite desire. It was pain, raw and volatile, trying to find somewhere to go. Somewhere to land.

Her voice came out low, almost a whisper. “I don’t want to talk, Daniel.”

He froze, torn between instinct and empathy. Her rested on his shoulders, her pulse fluttering fast against his. There was danger in her eyes, the kind born not of malice, but of heartbreak.

“I want you to fuck me,” she said quietly. “I want you to make me forget about Olivia, about the rest of the world.”

But she liked him. She liked the way his body felt—solid, grounding, familiar. The way his breath hitched when she touched his jaw. The way his hands, tentative at first, rested against her waist like he was afraid she might shatter if he held her too tightly.

She kissed him again, slower this time, her mouth softer but no less hungry. It wasn’t about sex. Not really. It was about wanting to feel seen, to feel something other than the ache of betrayal gnawing through her ribs.

“Marissa…” he whispered, one hand finally settling on her hip, the other brushing the side of her face.

Her eyes were glass. “Please.”

There was danger in this. But also something achingly human. And Daniel, foolish as he was, couldn’t look away. He was just a man, after all.

He leaned in, about to kiss her again, but stopped. Marissa, was beautiful, gorgeous really. And he could still remember their last night together. But he couldn’t do this, not like this.

“This isn’t healthy,” he said to her quietly against her lips. “You know that.”

She clung quietly to his shirt, dark fingers curled into the fabric like she could anchor herself there, like maybe if she held on tightly enough, the rest of her wouldn’t unravel.

Daniel didn’t move.

His hand was still at her cheek, thumb grazing a tear she hadn’t meant to let fall. Her breath was shallow, uneven, and her eyes searched his like she needed him to say yes. To say he wanted her. To give her a reason not to fall apart.

But he didn’t.

Instead, his forehead leaned against hers, their breaths mingling in that small space between pain and restraint. His voice came soft, barely more than air. “You don’t need me for this.”

She let out a sound, half scoff, half sob. “Don’t tell me what I need.”

“I’m not,” he said. “But I know this isn’t it.”

Her grip loosened, like the strength had drained out of her arms. She sank forward, forehead against his shoulder, and for a moment, they just stayed like that, two people too wounded to move, too tangled in grief and memory to break apart.

“I hate her,” she said eventually, voice cracking. “I hate that she got to leave me with all this fucking mess.”

Daniel’s arms finally closed around her. Not with heat, not with hunger, but with something steadier. Gentler. “I know.”

And she cried.

Not loudly, not violently. Just soft, broken gasps into the side of his neck, the kind of crying you only do when there’s no performance left. When there’s nothing to prove, no armor to wear.

Authors note: I want to thank everyone who’s stuck by this story all this time even as I’ve slowed down with writing chapters. I’m happy to have reached fifty chapters, and your continued readership makes it all the worthwhile.