Chapter 193

A week after the hearing, Abigail found herself standing outside the music building.

Just standing there.

Not moving.

Not going in.

Not leaving.

Just staring.

The building looked exactly the same.

That was the strange part.

After everything that had happened, she had almost expected it to look different somehow.

Darker.

Smaller.

Less welcoming.

But it didn’t.

The brick walls were the same.

The glass doors were the same.

Students moved in and out carrying instrument cases and backpacks.

Someone laughed as they walked down the sidewalk.

A pianist somewhere inside was practicing scales.

A trumpet played a few notes before abruptly stopping.

Normal.

Everything looked normal.

Yet Abigail’s stomach still twisted.

Because this building used to be her favorite place on campus.

The place where she lost track of time.

The place where songs came to life.

The place where she dreamed about stages and recording studios and audiences singing her lyrics back to her.

Then slowly—

Without her even realizing it—

It became something else.

A place she rushed through.

A place she avoided.

A place where she felt watched.

A place where she stopped feeling comfortable.

A place connected to fear instead of music.

And now she was trying to take it back.

“You planning on going in?”

Emma’s voice broke through her thoughts.

Abigail looked over.

Emma stood beside her holding two coffees.

One already extended toward her.

Abigail accepted it automatically.

The cup was warm against her hands.

Grounding.

Comforting.

Normal.

“Maybe.”

Emma raised an eyebrow.

“Maybe?”

Abigail sighed.

“I don’t know.”

That was the truth.

The closer she got to the building, the harder it became to move.

She had driven here willingly.

Walked across campus willingly.

Stood outside willingly.

But the last ten feet felt impossible.

Emma didn’t push.

Didn’t lecture.

Didn’t tell her she was being irrational.

She simply stood beside her.

Quiet.

Patient.

Present.

Exactly what Abigail needed.

Students continued passing by.

Most didn’t pay attention.

A few recognized her.

One girl smiled and waved.

Another stopped briefly.

“It’s good to see you back.”

Abigail blinked.

Then smiled.

“Thanks.”

The girl nodded and continued walking.

The exchange lasted maybe five seconds.

But somehow it mattered.

Because there was no pity in the girl’s eyes.

No awkwardness.

No whispers.

No gossip.

Just kindness.

Abigail realized something.

People weren’t looking at her like she was part of some scandal anymore.

They were looking at her like herself.

Just Abigail.

A student.

A musician.

A songwriter.

A future performer.

Emma took a sip of her coffee.

Then casually asked,

“What’s the worst thing that happens if you walk in there?”

Abigail laughed.

“You’ve been talking to my therapist.”

“No.”

Emma smiled.

“But your therapist is smart.”

Abigail rolled her eyes.

Emma continued.

“I’m serious.”

Abigail stared at the building.

The question lingered.

What was the worst thing that happened?

Nothing.

Nothing would happen.

Professor Shields wasn’t there.

She couldn’t be there.

There was a no-contact order.

She had been barred from campus.

The building was safe.

Logically, Abigail knew that.

But anxiety wasn’t logical.

Trauma wasn’t logical.

Sometimes your body remembered things your mind had already moved past.

Emma reached for her hand.

Immediately.

Like always.

“You don’t have to stay all day.”

Abigail looked over.

“You don’t have to prove anything.”

A squeeze.

“You don’t have to walk in there and suddenly be completely healed.”

Another squeeze.

“You just have to take one step.”

The words settled somewhere deep inside her.

One step.

Not the whole staircase.

Not the whole journey.

One step.

Abigail looked back toward the doors.

Then took a breath.

And started walking.

The moment they entered the building, her heart rate doubled.

Immediately.

The familiar smell hit first.

Wood.

Sheet music.

Old instruments.

Practice rooms.

Memories.

Good memories.

Bad memories.

All tangled together.

Emma noticed her tense.

She quietly moved a little closer.

Not touching.

Just there.

A reminder.

You’re not alone.

The hallway looked exactly as Abigail remembered.

Rows of practice rooms.

Bulletin boards.

Performance flyers.

Student announcements.

Everything familiar.

Everything unchanged.

And somehow that was the hardest part.

Because the world had kept moving while she was trying to put herself back together.

When they finally reached one of the practice rooms, Abigail froze again.

Her hand rested on the doorknob.

She couldn’t move.

Not for several seconds.

Emma stayed silent.

Waiting.

Then Abigail opened the door.

The room was small.

A piano against one wall.

Two chairs.

A music stand.

A mirror.

Nothing special.

Nothing threatening.

Just a room.

Yet the second she stepped inside, memories flooded back.

Late-night rehearsals.

Songwriting sessions.

Dreaming about the future.

And eventually—

Looking over her shoulder.

Checking the hallway.

Wondering who might walk through the door.

The anxiety returned so fast it made her dizzy.

For the first ten minutes she barely touched the guitar.

It sat across her lap while she stared at it.

Her heart raced.

Her palms sweated.

Every sound in the hallway made her glance toward the door.

Every footstep made her tense.

Not because anything was wrong.

Because her body remembered.

The fear sat in her chest like a weight.

Heavy.

Uncomfortable.

Familiar.

Emma sat quietly in the corner.

Scrolling through her phone.

Not hovering.

Not watching.

Just being there.

Giving Abigail room.

Giving her support.

Giving her safety.

At one point Abigail stopped pretending.

She set the guitar down.

Covered her face.

And sighed.

Emma immediately looked up.

“You okay?”

Abigail nodded.

Then immediately shook her head.

“Not really.”

Emma put her phone away.

The room grew quiet.

“I hate this.”

Emma waited.

“I hate that she took this from me.”

The words surprised even Abigail.

Because she hadn’t said them out loud before.

Not once.

Emma’s expression softened.

Abigail looked around the room.

“This used to be my favorite place.”

Her voice cracked.

“I loved being here.”

A pause.

“I loved writing.”

Another pause.

“I loved practicing.”

Tears started forming.

“And then one day I didn’t.”

The silence that followed felt heavy.

Emma finally spoke.

“Then let’s take it back.”

Abigail looked at her.

Emma smiled.

Not a big smile.

A gentle one.

“You don’t have to get it all back today.”

A pause.

“Just one piece.”

Emma set her coffee cup down on the small table in the corner of the practice room, the rich aroma filling the air for a moment before the door clicked shut behind her. Abigail looked up, a mix of surprise and wariness in her eyes.

“What are you doing?” Abigail asked, her voice soft but edged with uncertainty.

Emma walked over to stand in front of Abigail, her movements deliberate and reassuring. “Making this a new memory for you,” she said, her voice gentle.

Without warning, Emma reached up and grasped Abigail’s hair, tilting her head back. Their lips met in a deep, passionate kiss, Emma’s tongue exploring Abigail’s mouth with a hunger that left no doubt about her desire. Abigail’s hands came up to grip Emma’s waist, holding on as if to anchor herself against the tidal wave of emotion crashing over her.

When they finally broke for air, Emma slid off Abigail’s lap and straddled her thighs, the friction of their bodies igniting a heat that seared through Abigail’s veins. Emma reached down and grasped Abigail’s dick, her touch firm and knowing.

“Somebody’s happy I’m here,” Emma purred, stroking Abigail’s length with slow, deliberate strokes.

Abigail let out a soft sigh, her resistance crumbling in the face of Emma’s unwavering affection. She felt the anxiety that had gripped her moments before begin to dissipate, replaced by a sense of safety and comfort that only Emma could provide.

Emma released Abigail’s dick and reached down, sliding her thong to the side and positioning herself over Abigail’s lap. With a slow, deliberate motion, she lowered herself onto Abigail’s dick, taking her time to adjust to the size and shape of her fiancée’s unique body.

Emma took her time, savoring the sensation of Abigail’s body inside her. She leaned forward, resting her breasts against Abigail’s chest as she began to move, her hips undulating in a slow, sensual rhythm. Abigail’s hands came up to cup Emma’s ass, fingers digging into the flesh as he gently guided her motions, urging her to take him deeper.

As Emma rode Abigail, she gazed into her eyes, seeing the tension melt away, replaced by a softness that spoke of trust and desire. She whispered against Abigail’s lips, “You’re safe with me, always.” The words were a promise, a vow to always be there, to never let Abigail face her fears alone.

Abigail’s breath hitched, a quiet moan escaping her as Emma’s words washed over her. She wrapped her arms around Emma’s waist, pulling her in closer, the contact a physical manifestation of the emotional bond they shared. With each pass of Emma’s hips, Abigail felt herself slipping further into the present, leaving the past and its ghosts behind.

Emma’s pace quickened, her body responding to Abigail’s tightening grip and the increasing pressure within her. 

“Don’t hold back,” Emma urged, her voice a husky whisper. “Let go, I’ve got you.” The words were a lifeline, a reminder that Emma would always be there to catch Abigail if she fell.

With a low, guttural moan, Abigail surrendered, her orgasm crashing over her in waves of intense pleasure. Emma felt the surge within her, matching her own climax as she rode out the waves of their shared release. In that moment, they were one, their bodies and hearts intertwined in a dance of love and trust.

As the aftershocks subsided, Emma collapsed against Abigail’s chest, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Abigail held her close, stroking her back in soothing motions, both of them basking in the warmth of their affection. The practice room, once a symbol of fear and anxiety, had been transformed into a sanctuary of love and acceptance, a place where Abigail could finally heal and move forward, knowing she had Emma by her side.

Eventually Abigail picked up the guitar.

Again.

The first chord sounded shaky.

The second sounded uncertain.

The third sounded better.

The fourth sounded familiar.

The fifth sounded like home.

Something inside her loosened.

Just a little.

Not completely.

But enough.

For the first time in months she wasn’t thinking about Professor Shields.

She was thinking about music.

Thirty minutes became an hour.

An hour became two.

Without realizing it, Abigail started humming.

Then singing.

Then writing.

Not much.

Just fragments.

Half-finished lyrics.

Random thoughts.

Little pieces of inspiration.

But it was something.

More than she’d done in a long time.

Emma smiled the entire drive home.

Back at the penthouse, Ashley practically tackled her at the door.

“How did it go?”

Abigail laughed.

Ashley looked genuinely invested.

Like she’d been waiting all day.

“It was good.”

A pause.

“Hard.”

Ashley nodded immediately.

That answer made sense.

Megan stood and walked over.

“You went though.”

Abigail smiled.

“I went.”

Megan pulled her into a hug.

Immediately.

“I’m proud of you.”

The words hit harder than expected.

Because she was proud of herself too.

A little.

That evening everyone gathered in the living room.

The city glowing outside the windows.

The sunset painting the skyline orange and gold.

Abigail sat cross-legged on the floor with her guitar.

Nobody asked her to play.

Nobody pressured her.

Nobody stared.

They simply existed around her.

Ashley sketching in a notebook.

Megan watching game film.

Emma stretched out on the couch pretending to rest while secretly watching Abigail every five seconds.

The normalcy of it felt wonderful.

Safe.

Comfortable.

Home.

Eventually Abigail started strumming softly.

The conversation continued around her.

Nobody stopped.

Nobody made it a moment.

And somehow that helped more than anything else.

Because for the first time in a long time—

Music wasn’t connected to fear.

Or anxiety.

Or Professor Shields.

It was connected to this.

Family.

Love.

Support.

Home.

The people who never stopped believing in her.

The people who stayed.

The people who reminded her who she was when she forgot.

As the evening stretched on, Abigail found herself smiling.

Not forcing it.

Not pretending.

Actually smiling.

Because she realized something.

Today wasn’t about conquering fear.

It wasn’t about winning.

It wasn’t about proving anything.

Today was simply about coming back.

And sometimes—

Coming back was the bravest thing you could do.