The nurse talks to Ava in soft, practiced tones. The exam begins. I stay back, giving them space while keeping my eyes on her the entire time.
The bruises on her neck are worse up close. Finger-shaped. Violent.
I want to kill him all over again.
She winces when they clean the cuts on her palms. Her skin is pale, fragile, and her voice hasn’t returned to full strength. She barely speaks, but she doesn’t look away from me either. That gaze—steady but tired—says more than any words ever could.
She 's still here.
When the doctor finishes, she nods at me. “She needs rest.
She 's lucky.”
The doctor finishes wrapping Ava’s arm in clean gauze, her touch gentle, practiced. Ava hasn’t said much — barely a whisper when answering questions — but she hasn’t let go of my hand once.
I sit beside her on the bed, our fingers laced, her grip firm despite the tremble in it. She’s holding it together with the last scraps of her strength, and I’m doing everything I can not to fall apart beside her.
The doctor glances at me with a subtle nod. “Mr. Blacksmith, may I speak with you for a moment? Just outside?”
Ava tenses immediately. I lean in, brush a kiss to her temple.
“I’ll be right back, baby. Two minutes.” My voice is low, careful — a promise and an anchor. She nods without looking at me, and I follow the doctor out into the hallway, letting the door close behind us.
The second it does, I turn to her. “Tell me.”
She exhales, professional mask still in place. “Physically, she’s stable. Bruises, cuts, minor contusions — we’ve treated them all. There’s no evidence of sexual assault. She told me directly she wasn’t touched that way.”
The breath I didn’t realize I was holding escapes in a hard exhale, but it doesn’t bring relief. Not completely.
“There’s a but,” I say, reading it in the set of her jaw.
“There is.” She nods. “In my professional opinion, there’s more to the story. She may not have processed it yet, or she’s protecting herself emotionally — or you. That’s common in trauma victims.”
I run a hand down my face. My fingers are shaking.
“She’s holding it together for now, but it might come out later. Sudden anger, anxiety, nightmares, panic. She’ll need a safe space — time, patience. Someone who won’t push her.”
“She has me.” The words come out rough. Uncompromising.
The doctor softens slightly. “I can tell she trusts you.” She hands me a small paper bag. “Some sleeping pills if she changes her mind. And my card — along with the name of a psychologist I trust completely. Trauma like this doesn’t heal overnight.”
I nod, jaw tight. “Thank you.”
“I meant what I said in there,” she adds gently. “She’s lucky. Not just to have survived this… but to have you. People underestimate what that kind of support can do.”
I swallow hard, glance back toward the door. “I won’t let her fall.”
The doctor offers a final nod before walking away down the hall.
I wait until her footsteps fade, then step back inside.
Ava’s sitting exactly where I left her, arms around her knees now, blanket pulled close. Her eyes flick up as I enter, and the fear in them cracks something in me wide open.
I go straight to her. Sit down, wrap my arms around her like I’m the only damn shield she has. And maybe I am.
“I’m here,” I whisper. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
She doesn’t say anything — just lays her head on my chest.
