Born To Be Your's

Chapter 13

The chaotic, antagonistic rivalry between Blake and Liv had softened into a strange, hostile truce over the past few days. During their walks to school, Liv had slowly started to emerge from her shell. She accepted Maddie’s relentless enthusiasm, even going so far as to engage in short, dry conversations and allowing the little girl to hold her hand. At Northwood High, she took to sitting with Blake and Travis at lunch, their arguments now a constant, witty background noise in the cafeteria, punctuated by subconscious s****l innuendos neither of them seemed willing to acknowledge.

But when Thanksgiving break arrived, Liv retreated instantly. Her emotional shutters slammed down, and she hadn’t left the pink-walled spare bedroom since Thursday afternoon.

It was Thanksgiving morning, and the house was intoxicating. Laura was flying around the kitchen, fueled by anxiety and pride, preparing their feast—a massive turkey and all the sides acquired through the food pantry’s generous Thanksgiving baskets.

The front door burst open, and Francis and Paul walked in, arms laden with desserts—pies, cakes, and cookies piled high.

Laura greeted them, her hands covered in flour. She immediately noticed the gap. “Francis, where’s Olivia? Dinner’s almost ready.”

Francis scoffed, throwing her purse onto the counter. “The little b***h seems to be in a mood. I told her to come down and she told me to f**k off. Said she wasn’t hungry.”

Paul, though, looked genuinely concerned. He gently put down the desserts. “Give her some time, Laura. Holidays are hard for foster kids. I didn’t like them when I was in foster care, either. She’ll come around.”

Blake, leaning against the doorway, tightened his jaw. He could feel Liv’s palpable withdrawal across the yard. The hostility was one thing, but the silence, the sadness, was different.

“Do you want me to check on her?” Blake asked, the offer surprising even himself. “Maybe I can talk her into coming out for dinner.”

Francis waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever, B. Just tell her to stop being so damn dramatic.”

Paul looked at Blake, a silent, pleading expression in his eyes. Please. Paul was clearly starting to get attached, despite Francis’s mercenary warnings.

Blake nodded to Paul, slipped on his boots, and walked across the frozen yard to the neighbor’s house.

He walked into the warm, scented air of Paul and Francis’s house.

“Liv?” he called, his voice deep, echoing the name into the quiet house. Silence.

He reached the top of the stairs, walked down the short hall, and stopped at her door. He knocked lightly. “Olivia?”

Then, he heard her voice—soft, cracked, and unmistakably fragile. “Go away.”

Blake tightened his jaw. Normally, this was his cue to leave. He didn’t do emotional rescue; he was the one who needed rescuing. He didn’t care. He shouldn't.

But this time, he did. He could tell she was crying.

He ignored her plea, put his hand on the handle, and slowly opened the door.

Liv was curled up on her side, facing away from him, in the fetal position. She was wearing loose gray sweatpants and a tank top. He could see the intricate tattoo of the vines and roses curving up her side, beautiful and vulnerable. He slowly walked to the end of the bed, the mattress creaking under his weight.

He sat down gently. He reached out and placed his hand lightly on her hip.

“You okay?”

Normally, Liv would have erupted in fury, telling him to get out and mind his f*****g business. But today, she didn't move. She just sniffled, her body shaking slightly.

She didn't speak for a long moment. Then, she took a shaky breath and started talking, her voice thin and cracked.

“Today… today was the day I found my mom,” she confessed.

Blake swallowed a hard lump in his throat. He didn’t say anything, just let the quiet of the room embrace her truth.

She continued, the words tumbling out in a low, choked torrent. “I was four. I was hiding under my bed. My father had just come home from another bender. He was mad because my mother overcooked the turkey. He was yelling, and he was hitting her. I stayed hidden because I knew if I intervened or if I was even in his sight, I would be the next target.”

She paused, taking a breath that rattled in her chest. “Then suddenly, it was quiet. I heard my father leave again. I waited fifteen minutes before I crawled out. I walked to my mother’s room, and that’s when I saw her. Lying there in the blue, not breathing, with a needle next to her.”

The sheer, brutal tragedy of the image hung in the air. “I tried to call 911, but the phone was broken—my father ripped it out of the wall. I didn’t know what to do. So I just sat there next to her, covered her up with a blanket, hoping she was just sleeping and she would wake up. But she never did.”

Blake reached out and gently tucked a loose strand of her dark hair behind her ear. He didn't offer platitudes or comparisons.

“I’m sorry that happened to you, Liv,” he said, his voice quiet and rough with genuine empathy.

Olivia tried to hold back her tears, her chin quivering violently. Then, suddenly, she moved. Out of instinct, out of desperation, out of some basic human need for affection she had been denied her entire life, she sat up and flung herself at him. She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck.

Blake didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his strong arms around her small, trembling frame, pulling her in tight, as if he could shield her from the four-year-old memory. Olivia buried her face into his neck, inhaling his scent—a comforting blend of cigarette smoke, and the masculine freshness of his body wash. The scent was clean, strong, and utterly soothing.

They sat there for a long time, the only sound the shallow, shaky rhythm of Liv’s breathing.

Liv finally took a shaky breath, the tears slowing. “You should head back to your house, Blake. Dinner should be done.”

But Blake tightened his grip, pulling her closer still. The hard, familiar pressure of her body against his was an unexpected comfort. “I don’t want to leave you alone like this. Dinner will be waiting for me.”

Liv took a deep breath against his neck, pulling comfort from his scent and his presence. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Blake smiled softly against her hair. “That’s what friends are for.”

Liv tightened her grip around Blake’s neck, a silent acknowledgment of their new, fragile bond. The war was over, for now.

Blake held Olivia tight, their bodies pressed together in the dim light of the pink room. He continued to stroke her hair, his arms wrapped securely around her small frame, a silent promise of protection he rarely offered. The silence was deep, a necessary balm after the brutal honesty of her memory.

​Liv remained buried in his neck, inhaling his scent—a comforting, complex mixture of leather jacket, fresh cedar and mint from the shower, and the underlying, distinct musk of his own body. The scent was masculine, clean, and surprisingly soothing.

​After a long moment, when the desperate trembling in her body subsided, Blake finally shifted his weight, still holding her close. He knew he had to offer something back, an equal vulnerability, a trade for the terrible truth she had just given him.

​He took a deep breath, and the words, usually locked tight behind his sarcasm, spilled out. “I remember the day my mom left. I was fourteen. Kevin—my older brother—he’d just shipped out two years before, off to play soldier. He was our safety net, the one who was supposed to fix things.”

​He pulled back slightly. “Mark was only a month old, and our mom was struggling bad with postpartum. The drugs and the depression just ate her alive. Our dad… he was a drunk, yeah, and a thief, but he mostly hit things that didn’t belong to him. He never hit us.”

​Blake swallowed hard. “Then, one day, he got busted for stealing copper wiring from the factory. Locked up. That was my mother’s last straw. She just packed a bag and left all of us. No note, no call. Just gone.”

​He tightened his grip on Liv, pulling her back against his chest. “Laura was seventeen, in her senior year. She had to drop out right then to take care of us. I had to step up and help. Travis was eleven. Maddie and Ryan were only five. And Mark was just this tiny, fragile thing, barely a month old. Our dad was in and out of jail for years after that. We never knew when he’d get out or when he’d be coming back, so we had to fend for ourselves.”

​Liv listened, her face pressed into his neck. She tightened her grip around him—not just seeking comfort now, but acknowledging the profound, mirrored pain of being left behind by the people who were supposed to be immovable fixtures. She finally had someone who understood the precise, cold terror of realizing you were completely disposable.

​Liv finally pulled back, wiping a stray tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. She took a deep, shaky breath, her composure returning.

​“Seems like we both got the shitty end of the stick,” she concluded, her voice low and resigned.

​Blake huffed, a wry, defeated sound. “Yup. The architecture was rigged from the start.” He looked at her, his dark eyes softening slightly. “Now, how about we go eat some food? Laura’s turkey is probably ready.”

​He paused, a familiar, mischievous glint returning to his eyes. “Or, if you’d like, we can grab a plate of food and go hide in my room, listening to music and smoke some weed.”

​A slow, genuine smile spread across Liv’s face, making Blake’s heart skip a beat. It was the first time he’d seen her smile without the intent to provoke or insult.

​“A man after my own heart, Copper,” Liv said, the sarcasm returning, but laced with warmth. “Fine, but it better not be s**t weed.”

​Blake returned the smile, his own widening. “It’s Detroit, sweetheart. It’s anything but shit.”

​Liv stood, pulling on a plain black sweatshirt over her tank top, a necessary armor against the world. Blake followed her. They walked out of the room and headed downstairs, leaving the ghosts of their childhood trauma alone in the quiet pink room.