INVISIBLE STRING ― pedro pascal

-REAL LIFE

But she was too preoccupied trying to figure out where she was to care. And the headache. A throbbing sensation pulsated at her temples and threatened to consume her entirely. She wished the bed would swallow her whole and hide her for eternity.

"Hey," she heard a soft voice. Her head snapped up and her entire body relaxes, spotting Pedro at the door, a crease between his brows. "How're you feeling?"

How was she feeling?

"Fine," she muttered. "How long was I out for?"

"Just a few hours. It's barely 3am."

"And you waited that long?" She raised an eyebrow. "What happened?"

"You passed out," he shrugged, watching her carefully. "Blacked out, really. I think you were triggered by the—" he stopped himself, watching her still, eyes never veering. "And you blacked out. I went outside after you left, and you passed out right into my arms. Brought you back in here and let you rest." He shook his head then, a remorseful look crossing his handsome features. "I'm sorry."

"Why're you sorry?"

"I shouldn't have—I shouldn't have brought you over. I'm so sorry."

He looked deeply apologetic, and it tugged at her heart. Guilt nearly shredded her heart in two. He shouldn't be apologizing for her addiction. She should've mentioned it. She should've stayed away from him.

"No, I'm sorry. I should've—I should've stayed in my own trailer. Matter of fact, I'm just going to—"

He was in front of her before she could finish her sentence.

"Lay here until you're rested? Sounds like a good idea to me."

"Pedro, I can't just take your bed."

"You can and you will," he told her sternly, kneeling down and taking her hands in his. "Cariño, if not for yourself, then for me. I was so worried about you."

"You didn't call anyone though?" She looked behind him, noticing the lack of policeman, paparazzi, and whomever else he should've called.

"I called your dad right after you blacked out. I thought about the paramedics, but you were breathing fine, and he said to just keep you still. He said you have PTSD?"

"Yeah," She nodded, looking away from him. "Because of my mom," her voice cracked.

He took in a breath, squeezing her hands gently.

"I did too, for a while. My mom committed suicide," he confessed to her quietly, his face pained, but remained soft. As though he'd grown accustomed to the pain.

"When I was twenty-four, just a little younger than you. It hurt like hell and every day I blamed myself. I used to wake up and hate myself for not being enough for her. So much that I caused incredible damage to myself. I didn't shower or eat. I was scared of everything; loud noises, crowded places, I didn't like being home. I got reckless, went drinking all the time, got into bar fights.

"I was so angry. At everything. At her for leaving, at myself for not making her stay. At my dad for not knowing how to stop her. But I started to realize that I had to live the best life I could, for her. She didn't get that life; she'd given up before it could become beautiful again. And I wasn't going to take advantage of that. And I had to let go of the anger and regret, because it was getting me nowhere."

"I didn't know that," Willow replied softly.

"I haven't really talked about it," he shrugged, rubbing his thumbs along the palms of her hands. "Are you seeing anyone?"

Willow nodded. "Yeah, I am." At his look she nodded surer of herself. "I am. Once a week. She's really been helping but I just...sometimes I have bad nights and sometimes I have good nights. And seeing — I thought I could be around, but it was—"

"—Hey," he squeezed her hands, bringing her attention back to him. "You don't have to explain, Princesa. I'm here if you need to but you don't have to."

She nodded, silent for a long time with him kneeled in front of her, quiet, running his fingers along her hands.

She appreciated his comfort, felt swallowed in it. He was warm and gentle and good, everything she herself felt the opposite of.

After a long pause, she met his eyes, which hadn't moved from her face since he last spoke.

"Can I stay here tonight?"

"Of course," he answered immediately. "I can take the couch and—"

"—No!" She blurred out, faster and harsher than she'd meant it. "No," she corrected, still on edge after the flashback. "I want — I mean if you want to, can we—can you hold me?"

"Of course," he said again, sterner this time. "Lay back," he ordered her gently. She did as told, pushing herself back against the pillows.

They were softer than hers in her trailer, though she shouldn't expect any less. He moved to climb in next to her and reached a hand up to her face.

He brushed back a piece of her hair and ran his thumb along her cheek.

"Rest, Princesa. I'm right here."

"Promise?" She asked weakly, not caring how childish it sounded. He moved closer to her, their legs touching. "You won't go anywhere?"

His sweats covered him, pressed against her, the fabric soft against her bare legs. She wondered briefly if his legs were as soft and warm as the rest of him; his hands, his lips on her cheek — she wanted to know what the sun felt like against her completely. She wanted his warmth to consume her, to push away every dark cloud and replace them with his comforting sunshine.

She wanted to move closer to him, pull herself into his arms, but she refrained. She didn't want to upset him, to make ruin this gentle disposition. He was so kind to her, gentle and soft, she didn't want him to pull away in disgust — the last straw after her episode.

As though reading her thoughts, he moved his hand from her head and wrapped it around her waist, tugging her closer to him and pressing a gentle kiss to her head.

His hand remained at her waist, running along the fabric of her shirt gently — he'd taken off her sweater, she realized, but the tank top remained — and she closed her eyes.

Just before sleep captured her, she heard his voice speak through the darkness, a finality in his voice she hadn't heard from him before.

"I promise, Willow."

—