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I slide one arm around her back, and the other under her knees, and gently pull her to me. She startles in her sleep, and I watch her brows pinch together in confusion and perhaps a smidge of fear. I'm almost positive she relaxes before I even whisper my affirmations of her safety, of comfort. I let myself believe what I'm almost sure I saw--that it was her deep inhale, the recognition of the familiar scent of my aftershave that comforted her.

"It's just me, baby girl," I whisper to her soothingly, calling her what I usually only call her in my head now. "I've got you. We're going to take a nap."

I'm not expecting a response, and her faint murmured "m’kay", practically melts my heart into a puddle right there inside my goddamn chest.

I carry her around the front of her jeep, squeezing us through the small space between it and the fence to avoid as many eyes as possible since the next lunch period just began and the lot is filled with classmates.

I prop my foot on the side bumper and shift Rory's weight to my knee so I can get the passenger door open, then carefully place her on the seat and reach over and buckle her seat belt.

She murmurs something I can't make out, so I whisper more assurances and press a soft kiss to her forehead. I'm about to shut her door when I hear her breathe my name. I'm sure of it. But she says nothing more, and I give it another couple of seconds to make sure she's still asleep before I head back around to the driver's seat. I slide my phone from my pocket, text Tuck that Rory wasn't feeling well and I was driving her home, and for him to tell Carl. I'll get Tuck to pick me up after school to get my car back later.

I drive to Rory's house in silence, just listening to the sound of her deep, even, peaceful breathing. It is music to my fucking ears.

I park her jeep in the driveway, pocket her keys, and make my way around to carry her inside. There's another small startle when I slide my arms under her, but she relaxes into me immediately, and whimpers softly in her sleep.

I lift her effortlessly, she really is a slight little thing—not short for a girl, but not tall either, and naturally slim. Though her recent lack of appetite has cost her weight she couldn't afford to lose.

Rory's arms come up and clasp around my neck, taking me by surprise.

"Sam," I hear her murmur again.

"That's right, baby, it's me." I sigh, both in the pleasure of having her in my arms, and the resignation that I know it isn't real. "I've got you, Pine," I assure her.

She's either talking and moving in her sleep, or exhausted to the point of delirium. Probably a little of both, and I'm pissed again that she almost tried to drive herself home like this.

As if she can sense my tension even in her current state, she burrows her face into the side of my neck to soothe me. And it works, of course—the tension instantly drains out of me, but resurges lower, in one particular area that can't help but be affected by the sensation of her lips against my skin.

"That's not helpful right now, baby girl," I whisper to her as I reposition her weight to grab her keys from my pocket.

She hums against my neck, the vibrations flowing through my entire body, only making it harder for me. Figuratively, and literally.

Her house key is the only other key on the chain, and I open it expeditiously, and carry her upstairs to her bedroom. I know her mother will be home late today. Rory mentioned it would be after dinner, and I want her to sleep as long as she possibly can. She needs it. And I'll stay here all fucking day if I have to.

I yank open her comforter and lay her down on the sheet, slipping off her sneakers and setting them next to the bed. She's in black leggings and a gray tee shirt today, so she should be comfortable. She started wearing leggings or sweatpants every Tuesday and Thursday so she wouldn't have to change for phys-ed, and the recollection elicits a surge of renewed resentment toward Chelsea, whom I'm supposed to have forgiven.

Though it's only the reason she wears them that I resent. Because I'll be honest, I'm definitely not complaining about those tight stretchy pants. I want to send a fucking thank-you note to whoever it was that invented them.

Rory rolls to her side and burrows into her pillow before she settles into stillness. I fight to force my eyes away from the perfectly outlined curve of her ass.

I watch her for a few minutes, wondering what I should do now. I don't want her nightmares to return, not today. I know if I hold her there's a better shot of keeping them away, but she's not mine, and that's not my right anymore. If she were awake I would ask her permission. I would fucking beg if I had to. But she's not, so I don't know what to do.

The thought of just climbing into bed with her is tempting as hell. But it would be beyond presumptuous at best, and probably a violation for any girl. But for a girl with Rory's history? It could be disastrous. So instead, I drag her desk chair to the foot of her bed, sit down, kick my feet up onto the mattress, and watch her sleep. I tell myself I'm not a creepy stalker. And I hope to hell I'm not lying to myself.

The buzz of my cell phone has never sounded louder. I jump up out of my chair, fumbling for the damn thing before it can wake Rory. I'm about to decline the call, but I check the caller ID first just in case. The 212 number is one I've recognized since I was little.

I accept the call before it can buzz again, and slip out of Rory's room, keeping the door ajar so the click of the jam doesn't wake her.

"Hello?" I answer, though I know who's on the other end.

"Sammy." My father's voice rings loud and clear over the line. "I figured you'd be in school. I was just going to leave a message for you to call me when you got out."

"Well I'm here, so what do you need to tell me?" God I hope he gets to the fucking point.

"Why aren't you in class?" he asks. He hasn't given two shits what I've done for the past five years straight, so why he thinks he has a right to question me now, I can't fucking imagine. But I still need him to help Rory, so I don't call him out on it.

"It's my lunch hour," I lie, not that he would have known what time I took lunch even before he left us.

"Can you talk now? I mean with privacy? Or-"

"Yes, Mitch. I'm alone, just talk," I urge.

I hear my father's deep exhale, and nerves creep up my spine, intimating that I'm going to like this conversation even less than I thought.

"How well do you know this Aurora girl?" he asks.

"Rory," I correct him for no goddamn reason at all.

"How much do you know about her?" he presses.

"Everything," I practically growl through my clenched jaw.

"Look, I spoke to a couple of people down in her hometown. I should get the files I asked for by the end of the week, so I don't have anything solid, just talk—"

"What kind of fucking talk?" I'm already fuming. I know what he's going to say. But I need to hear him say it. And then I need to tell him to go fuck himself. I can feel myself getting heated, so I pull the door shut and lean back against it, knowing now that the click of the lock won't be louder than this conversation.

"Calm down, Sammy—"

"Don't fucking call me
Sammy
. I'm not your little
Sammy
. I'm fucking eighteen, and I haven't seen you since I was a kid. I asked for your
help
, and I'm already fucking regretting it," I say slowly and carefully.

There are a few moments of silence while we both regroup. Despite my words, I do as he's asked and try to calm myself.

"I've just spoken to a few low level people. I'm waiting on the police reports and some other confidential documents I've gotten wind of," he begins.

"Do you think I needed to call
you
to talk to
some low level people?"
I say patronizingly.

"You know what,
Sam
, I think I know what I'm doing here, so why don't you just relax." Now he's the one losing his cool, and I'm sure his infamous temper isn't far away. The real monster only ever came out with the coaxing of alcohol, but that doesn't mean he couldn't be a real dick without it, even if he didn't put his hands on us.

I stay carefully silent, certain that anything I might say would be counterproductive at this point, especially since it's on the tip of my tongue to tell him to fuck himself and figure out a Plan B. But I don't actually have a Plan B, and so I wait with practiced false patience while he continues.

"I'll speak to the higher ups after I've reviewed all of the evidence myself. From both cases. But sometimes the people on the ground have access to information that doesn't make its way into the files or up the professional food chain," he explains.

It makes sense, what he's saying, but I won't concede the point, I just continue to stay silent.

"I'm just asking how well you know this
Rory
girl. Because I know what she accused the Forbes kid of, and I know what you saw in Miami. But we have to consider that the truth of one doesn't necessarily prove the truth of the other. Because there are a hell of a lot of people down there who are convinced she made the whole thing up. That it was her way of getting revenge after he ended their relationship. And I know it's hard to hear, but it isn't unheard of—girl's crying rape—"

I did my best, but it's all I can listen to. "She didn't
cry
anything. The
motherfucking bastard
abused her for months,
raped
her,
for months!
He tried to
strangle
her, cut her open with his motherfucking house key, I've seen the fucking scar. His bullshit rumor that you're repeating right now—it's the reason he was free to come after her again in Miami. I won't let it happen again. I
can't
. She's telling the truth. Every word. You don't know her. I do. So don't believe her. Believe
me
."

I'm breathing hard, every muscle in my body tense with barely contained rage. It's hard enough to listen to someone repeat this bullshit about Rory, to have a fresh view of exactly how that piece of shit got away with it the first time. How easily people believe the lies. But to listen to my own father doubt her? And Mitch fucking Caplan—an abusive bastard himself—with the gall to question her word after everything she's already suffered? It's about all I can fucking take right now.

"I think we both know how easy it is to spin stories to hide abuse." I keep my tone low and even. And though I know he hears the accusation, I won't make this about us. It's not about us. "She's suffered enough. I won't have you questioning her."

I end the call and slam my thumb into the power button and shut the damn thing off. I'm done with this conversation. With any conversation right now. My head hangs to my chest and I catch my temples between my thumb and middle finger and try to rub out the stress pooling there.

Fuck. This is bad. That couldn't have gone worse, and I still need him. I need him to believe her. I need him to believe
me
. I don't know how to protect her without his help. I take several deep, calming breaths. I'm going to have to call him back at some point and fix it, I know that. But I've got a couple of weeks before I'm meant to meet him in his office, so I'll just let him stew for now.

And then I hear a sound that cracks open my chest and freezes my heart.

"Stop," Rory's faint voice murmurs, and I burst back through the door, frantic. For a moment I actually believed she could be under attack. She's not of course, she's just dreaming, but that doesn't mean she's not living that exact terrifying scenario inside her subconscious.

I'm at her side in an instant, and I'm gutted by the sight in front of me. Her face is scrunched up in fear, her forearm held over it in a defensive motion. The rest of her is curled up in a fetal position, and she's still in a deep sleep.

"No," she squeaks, and in a split second I'm on the bed, rubbing her back, and brushing the hair from her face.

"I'm here, baby girl. He can't hurt you. I promise, he can't hurt you," I swear to her over and over. Part of me wishes my father could see this, could see what
that
motherfucking bastard
has done to her. Let him witness the symptoms of her very real PTSD and tell me she made it all up. But Rory would never want that, and truthfully, neither would I.

"I've got you. I won't let anyone hurt you. Ever again. I fucking swear to God, baby girl. You're safe. Just sleep," I plead.

The more I comfort and whisper to her, the more she relaxes back into a peaceful sleep. I watch, riveted, as the lines in her forehead smooth out, her muscles relax, and that sweet serenity sweeps over her features.

"That's it, Ror, just sleep," I encourage her.

I watch her body settle, and then freeze as her fingers skim over my tee shirt, and then clutch the back of it, holding herself against me. Her breathing evens out, and I know her nightmare has been chased off.

I feel a heady swell of pride.
I
did that. I saved her from
that motherfucking bastard
, even in her dream, and I'm overcome with a vague sense of that god-like feeling only she can elicit in me.
God
, there's no greater gift than when she lets me help her, in whatever way she allows.