"I'm gonna read for a bit," he says, tossing the towel on the counter. "You need anything?"
"No. I'm good." I dry my hands, turn to face him. He's moving toward the couch with his book, and something in my chest eases. This. This is what I needed today. Not questions. Not explanations. Just... this. Just him. Just the quiet understanding that I'm safe here.
"Holt?"
He stops. Looks back.
"Goodnight."
His mouth curves slightly. "Night, Scout. Get some rest. Tomorrow's gonna be long."
"Great. Can't wait. Love long days in hell's armpit where the temperature makes you question your will to live."
"You'll survive."
"That's what you said last week and look at me now. Barely holding it together. Falling apart over dropped wrenches. Living my best life."
"You're holding it together fine."
"I panicked over a dropped wrench."
"And then you finished your shift." He holds my gaze, something warm in his eyes. "That's holding it together."
He's right. I did finish my shift. I didn't run. Didn't hide. Didn't let the panic win. I just... kept going. That's something. That's everything, maybe.
"Goodnight, Holt."
"Night, Scout."
He settles onto the couch with his book—that same thriller with the cracked spine, whatever happens in it apparently worth multiple readings. I retreat to the bedroom but leave the door cracked wider than usual. Wide enough that I can hear the pages turning, that familiar soft rustle of paper that's become part of my nights here.
I lie in bed, processing the day. He saw me at my most vulnerable—frozen and shaking, unable to breathe, trapped in panic I couldn't control—and he didn't make it weird. Didn't push for explanations. Didn't demand my trauma story or try to fix me or treat me like I'm fragile or broken. He just... cared. Quietly. The way he does everything. With action instead of words.
Safe. I'm safe here.
Not just physically safe—the roof over my head, the locked door, the knowledge that nobody here is going to hurt me.
But emotionally safe.
Safe to break.
Safe to be triggered.
Safe to have bad days without losing the good thing I've found.
Safe to exist exactly as I am, damage and all.
He's making space for my trauma without asking me to explain it. He's accommodating my triggers without making me feel weak about having them. He's showing me that care doesn't have to come with conditions, that protection doesn't have to feel like control, that someone can see you at your worst and not flinch.
That's what safety feels like.
I fall asleep to the sound of pages turning, thinking about the way he said "I'll make sure we don't drop shit around you." Not as a burden. Not as an inconvenience. Not as something I should apologize for or feel guilty about. Just as a fact, simple as breathing.
He saw me, and he didn't flinch.
He saw me, and he stayed.
Chapter 4
