Not guilty.

I sat, stunned for a moment before the words actually registered. Something inside of me – something that had been tight and closed for years – broke open, and I put my head and my hands and wept.

They had seen me. They had seen the suffering and the pain and they had believed me.

"Liz," a voice said beside me, and I turned to see Donald.

"Thank you," I said, reaching for his hand before realizing what I was doing and pulling away. He understood.

"Ms. Moore," the judge said from the bench, and I turned to look at him. "A jury of your peers in the state of New York have found you not guilty. You are free to go. Court is adjourned."

I wiped the tears from my eyes and turned behind me to see the friends who had been there to support me the entire time – Dean and Paul in the front row.

"What now?" I asked Donald.

"You go back to the prison to be processed out. You get your things. You move on with your life."

I did just that, and it was Dean who was waiting for me. His appearance when I saw him in the courtroom the first time had stunned me – gone was the mopish hair, replaced with a no-nonsense cut and accompanied by a beard that he kept close to his chin. He'd lost some of that swagger of arrogance, replaced with a hard glint in his eye and an expression that told everyone around him not to fuck with him.

I had to keep from crying again when I saw him, and the small smile that lit up his face told me everything I needed to know.

I went to him, stopping about a foot away. I wanted so desperately to hug him.

"Thank you," I said instead, "for coming to get me."

He shook his head. "I wouldn't let anyone else do it. Let's get you out of here."

We left. Our car ride was silent, but not uncomfortably-so. We checked into a hotel – two beds – and I immediately stepped into the first solo shower I'd had in months.

When I came out, Dean was laying on the bed. His eyes had a hint of moisture around them, but his voice was even.

"Do you want to talk about this now?"

My heart sank. "Is it wrong of me to say no?"

He shook his head. "No. Not at all."

I sat carefully on the opposite bed, studying him. It was there between us, whether I wanted to admit it or not, and I wanted to push this boulder out of the way and try to enjoy my last night with him.

"I had to. You understand that, right?"

"You could've told me."

"I didn't want him to hurt you."

"So you let him hurt you?"

I shrugged, nodding at the same time. "Yes. I know, it doesn't make any logical sense. I'd just rather he hurt me than anyone else. I was used to it."

He closed his eyes. "That's fucking heartbreaking, you know."

I nodded. "I do know."

"And you still love him?"

I took a deep breath. "You heard all the horrible stuff. And it was horrible. But...you didn't hear the nice stuff. The good times. My therapist told me it's called trauma bonding. You go through this huge, horrific ordeal with someone, this traumatic experience...and even if they're the one causing it, you feel connected to them. Then he took advantage of it by being sweet, by being protective and loving. He made me feel like he was the only person in the world who could ever understand me, could ever love me."

Dean hesitated. "There were good times?" He elected to ask, and I appreciated him for not telling me that he loved me.

"Yeah, actually. There were a few." Things flashed in my memory – nights by the lake, days out in the canoe, even small things like making dinner together. "I loved those times. I love that version of him." I took a deep breath. "But that's not who he really was. I'm going to try to get it all sorted out."

"Are you sure this is what you need?"

"Inpatient fucking intensive therapy? Did you hear what I just said about being in love with a guy who burned me with cigarettes?"

"How long will it be?"

I shrugged. "However long it takes."

"Can you have visitors?"

I fought a smile. "Yes."

"Good."

I closed my eyes. "You don't need to wait around for me, you know. You can go and have your own life, and you don't need to deal with my mess."

He was quiet for a long while. When I finally opened my eyes again, he was staring at me with a non-plussed expression on his face. "Let me know when visiting hours are."

I nodded. "I will."

Four months in, and they say I'm making good progress. I haven't had a nightmare in two weeks. The scars are fading, along with some of the residual emotions – fear, anger, love. I'm not confused anymore. I'm not a shell anymore.

Dean visits once a week. He's starting to seem happier, too. He tells me his contract is up soon, and he's thinking about leaving. I think it might be a good idea.

"Are you going to stay?" He asks.

I shake my head. "No. I think it's time I do something different. I'm not sure what yet. But...I want to help people like me. I want to help them find their way out of the dark."

"If anyone can show them, it's you." He says. I take a deep breath and I do something I've been thinking about doing for a few weeks now – I reach over and take his hand.

He sits for a moment, completely still, before slipping his fingers between mine.

It's the start.

When it's time for me to go, I'm ready. I'm terrified, but ready. Dean is waiting for me, and I take his hand and walk out the door. We'd been able to hug the last few times, but this is different now...now I'm leaving, going somewhere to be alone with him. I try not to be nervous.

We go to a hotel – our flight leaves in the morning. We're heading to Vegas. The doctors at the hospital have already arranged for outpatient care there with someone who knows my whole story.

I'm tense when we get into the room. He can tell.

"Do you want me to go somewhere for a little bit?"

I shake my head. "No. I just...I want to do something I've been thinking about for a long time, if you'll let me."

"Of course."

I go to him and press my lips to his. He closes his eyes, but he keeps his hands at his sides and keeps his lips soft.

I pull back. "Thank you," I say, "for being there for me. For not leaving."

He shook his head. "I'm not going anywhere. Ever."

It takes us a few months.

We've gotten to the point where we can sleep in the same bed – I've even managed, with a lot of internal coaxing, to lightly fool around with him.

That night it's different. There's something in the air, something that I can't deny. He's had his first hardcore match outside of WWE, and as I watch him wince as he climbs into bed I just know. I don't know how I know, but I know it's time.

I slip my hand inside his boxers, and he lays still for a long moment.

"Touch me," I encourage him. "Please."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

We're tumbling into each other, and as I climb on top of him I realize what it is. We're both broken. In different ways, of course, but we're both battered and bruised and that's ok. That's why we're here with each other – we can help heal the broken parts.

He slides into me, and soon there's no more logical thought. It's only the two of us.

We finish, and I snuggle on to his chest. "I love you." I tell him.

"I love you, too," he says, kissing my forehead. "We should probably get married or something."

"Yeah," I agreed. "Let's do that."

There was no fuss to it – marriage license, courthouse, done. I liked that. It was finally that quiet, simple life I'd wanted.

Now I'm sitting here, surrounded by an utter explosion of pink gifts from our excited friends and family. Dean is trying to be calm, but each day my stomach gets a little bigger and it gets a little more real. He's in the nursery, re-organizing the furniture for what I think is the fiftieth time.

I lean back against the couch, hand on my stomach. This little girl will never go where I went – it's my promise to her. She'll never know how broken her mom had to be before she got here. All she'll know is that she has a mother who would move the fucking world for her.

That was my war. And as God is my witness, it will never be hers.

THE END