Guarded Hearts

Chapter 7: Fragments of Safety

Kim Pov.

Detective Johns was right when he said he didn’t spend much time in his apartment. Since he brought me here, he only stops by once a week—just long enough to grab clean clothes, drop off another set of fresh ones, and stock the fridge with more food. He never lingers, never invades my space, never asks for more than I can give.

I don’t mind.

Actually, I appreciate it.

When we do cross paths, our conversations are brief.

“How are you?”

“Do you need anything?”

Simple, polite. Nothing more. And that’s fine by me. Talking isn’t something I’m good at anymore, and I appreciate that he doesn’t push.

But even if words are scarce, I’m aware of everything he’s done for me. He’s spent so much on me already—clothes, food, even leaving me money “just in case.” And I have no way of repaying him. The best I can do is keep the apartment clean, wash his clothes when he leaves them in the hamper, and make sure nothing is out of place when he returns.

It’s a small gesture, almost meaningless compared to his generosity, but it’s all I have to offer.

---

I get dressed slowly, mindful of my healing body. The bruises are fading, and the worst of the pain is gone, but some movements still make me wince. Today is important—I’m finally getting my cast removed. It’s one more step toward feeling like a normal person again.

I pull on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, slip my sneakers on, and grab my bag. As I step outside the apartment, I hesitate.

The world beyond these walls still feels unfamiliar. Too open. Too unpredictable. But I can’t hide forever.

I take the stairs down, one careful step at a time, and when I reach the ground floor, I freeze.

Erik is here.

His car is parked right in front of the building, and he’s staring at his phone, his fingers moving across the screen. I hadn’t expected to see him today.

As I step closer, he notices me and rolls down the window.

“You can go back up if you want to rest,” I say hesitantly. “I’m heading to the hospital. I won’t bother you.”

Even though Erik has never given me a reason to be afraid of him, I still feel the need to tread carefully. It’s not rational—he’s been nothing but kind—but my gut tells me to be cautious around men.

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to silence that instinct completely.

“I know,” he replies without looking up from his phone. “I’ll take you to the hospital.”

I stop mid-step.

“Wait… what?”

“There’s no need,” I say quickly. “I can handle it.”

“I know you can.” He finally looks up, his gaze steady. “But I thought you wouldn’t want to take a taxi or the bus. People would stare at you.”

His words catch me off guard. Not because he’s wrong—I *hate* the way people look at me, like my bruises are some kind of spectacle—but because I didn’t expect him to notice.

I didn’t expect him to *think* about something like that.

“Oh.”

It’s all I can manage before climbing into the car. I hesitate for a moment before shutting the door.

When I reach for the seatbelt, Erik hands it to me without a word. It’s such a simple gesture, but the way he does it—carefully, deliberately, without any expectation—unsettles me.

Not in a bad way.

Just in a way I don’t understand.

“Are you okay?” he asks, noticing my silence.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I murmur. “Thanks.”

I turn my gaze toward the window, avoiding his eyes.

---

The drive is quiet. Not tense, just… still.

The radio plays softly in the background, and Erik drives at an easy pace, not in any rush to get anywhere. Every now and then, I catch him glancing at me, but he doesn’t try to force conversation.

I’m grateful for that.

When we arrive at the hospital, Erik steps out first and walks around to open my door.

I stare at his outstretched hand.

It’s instinct to hesitate. To second-guess. To pull away.

But then I remind myself—this is Erik. He’s never hurt me. Never given me a reason to think he would.

So, I take his hand.

His palm is warm, his grip firm but gentle. The touch lasts only a second before I let go, but it lingers in a way I can’t explain.

“Do you need me to wait, or can you handle it?” he asks. His tone is neutral, giving me the choice.

I want to tell him I don’t need help. That I can do this alone.

But the truth is, knowing he’s here makes this easier.

“I think I can handle it…” I say softly. Then, for the first time, I add, “But thanks, Erik.”

I don’t think I’ve ever said his name out loud before.

He seems a little surprised but nods. “Good. If you need anything, I’m on my phone.”

I hesitate before heading inside, glancing at him once more.

He doesn’t leave.

He just leans against the car, waiting.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel something unfamiliar.

Something like *hope*.

---

The hospital visit is uneventful. The doctor removes my cast, does a final check-up, and tells me I’ll need to do some light exercises to rebuild strength. I nod and thank him, but my mind is elsewhere.

When I step outside, Erik is still there, exactly where I left him.

I hadn’t expected that.

I walk toward the car slowly, uncertain what to say. He doesn’t ask how the appointment went—he just nods toward the passenger seat.

“Ready?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

The drive back is the same as before—quiet, steady. But something feels different now.

Maybe it’s the way I don’t flinch when he reaches over to adjust the air conditioning.

Maybe it’s the way I let myself breathe, just a little deeper.

Or maybe it’s the fact that, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I don’t feel completely alone.

When we pull up to the apartment building, Erik doesn’t get out right away.

“There’s something I wanted to ask you,” he says.

I tense. “Okay…”

He exhales, gripping the steering wheel loosely. “Have you thought about what comes next?”

The question sends a jolt of panic through me.

“I…” My throat tightens. “I don’t know.”

He nods, as if he expected that answer. “No rush,” he says. “Just think about it. When you’re ready, we’ll figure something out.”

*We.*

Not *you.*

*We.*

I don’t know what to say to that. So I just nod, gripping the strap of my bag a little tighter.

When we step inside the apartment, I turn to him.

“Erik?”

He stops, raising an eyebrow.

“…Thank you.”

He doesn’t ask *for what.* He just nods.

“Get some rest, Kim.”

And for the first time since I left the hospital, I think I actually might.