“That’s normal,” I say, brushing a thumb along her cheek. “Your body needs time to understand it’s over.”
She nods, but her shoulders still curl in, tight with leftover adrenaline.
I cup the back of her head and bring her forehead to mine. “Dove… you don’t have to be anything right now. Not brave. Not calm. Not okay. You survived something that would break most people. You get to fall apart a little.”
She lets out a shuddering breath. “Don’t let me go tonight.”
“You won’t get rid of me.”
Her lips twitch. “Good.”
She shifts, pressing closer, not in a needy way, but like she’s stitching herself back into my side.
After a few minutes, she says quietly, “It wasn’t your fault.”
My whole body goes still.
She lifts her head, eyes steady. “You keep thinking it was. I saw it on your face at the cabin. I can feel it in you right now.”
I try to look away.
She catches my jaw gently. “Wyatt. Look at me.”
Reluctantly, I do.
Her voice softens. “You didn’t fail me. I left the cabin. I made choices. I tried to help Shay. This wasn’t your fault.”
My throat tightens. “I was supposed to protect you.”
“You did,” she says with a quiet conviction that lodges under the ribs. “You found me. You got to me in time. And I’m here, alive, because you refused to stop until you did.”
I swallow hard. She’s the only person on this earth who can pull the truth out of me without force.
“I couldn’t lose you,” I admit. “I… Sadie, I can’t even think about?—”
“You didn’t.” She leans her temple to mine. “I’m right here.”
We sit like that, breathing each other in, until the tension in my spine unwinds a fraction.
“Do you want tea?” I ask. Her favorite ritual when she’s overwhelmed.
She nods. “Chamomile. Two sugars.”
I slip from the couch, reluctant to let go of her warmth but knowing she’ll still be here when I turn back.
In the kitchen, I move quietly. Familiar motions. Steady ones. My hands stop shaking as I fill the kettle.
By the time I return, she’s pulled the blanket around her shoulders. Her eyes are half-lidded, exhaustion finally catching her.
I hand her the mug. She holds it in both hands like she’s warming her whole body with it.
“It smells good,” she murmurs.
“You look tired.”
“I feel… everything,” she says honestly. “But also… safer now that you’re not ten feet away from me.”
That admission hits straight through me. Not because it makes her seem fragile, but because she trusts me enough to say it out loud.
