He smells like leather and dust and something familiar I never let myself name before.
“Dad,” I say quietly.
The word settles between us.
He sucks in a breath like it physically hurts, his grip tightening enough to say everything he can’t. His chin rests on the top of my head, his shoulders shaking once.
“I’m here,” he says hoarsely. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I nod against him. “I know.”
When I step back, his eyes are wet. He doesn’t try to hide it.
Pace clears his throat and heads for the door, Hudson following after him, giving Colter a single nod on the way out.The room empties, leaving only the quiet hum of the house and the steady presence at my side.
Colter is there immediately, hand at my lower back, guiding me gently back to the couch like he never doubted I’d need him.
I sit, exhausted but lighter.
He looks at me like I rewrote the world.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
I lean into him, resting my head against his shoulder.
“Yeah,” I say. “I think I finally am.”
50
It takes longerthan I expect to feel like myself again.
Not because of the pain, that fades quickly with medication and forced rest, but because my body remembers the fear. It holds onto it like muscle memory, flinching before my mind can catch up. A few weeks pass in quiet pieces. A physical therapist comes and goes. Colter rarely leaves my side. Food appears whether I ask for it or not. He watches me like I’m something fragile, like one wrong move could break me all over again.
By the end of the month, the bruises are gone and my shoulder feels almost like normal again. The stiches have been removed, and I no longer have to wear the sling. My range of motion is nearly back to where it was before, and I can finally sleep without waking in a panic.
Normal. Or close enough.
Colter went upstairs an hour ago to handle something he won’t explain. He hasn’t explained much lately, but at least, when I ask, he doesn’t lie to me. Lee and Sutton come and keep me company when he is gone, filing the silence with chatter that doesn’t ask anything of me.
The bathwater steams as I lower myself into it, lavender blooming through the air. Heat loosens my muscles for the firsttime since everything went wrong. I sink deeper, letting my thoughts drift where I’ve been carefully avoiding.
The bathroom door opens softly.
“I figured I’d find you here,” Colter says.
I lift my gaze to him. To the familiar breadth of his shoulders. To the way his eyes check me first, always, before anything else. Relief and restraint tangle together in his expression.
“You’ve been avoiding telling me something,” I say lightly.
He doesn’t deny it. He steps closer, resting his hand on the edge of the tub. “I don’t want to overwhelm you.”
“I’m not fragile,” I say. “Not anymore.”
His jaw tightens. “I know.”
The silence stretches, thick with everything we aren’t saying. When I reach for his hand, he stills, but he doesn’t pull away. Hus thumb brushes over my knuckles, grounding and careful, like he needs a reminder that I’m real.
We sit like this until the bathwater cools. It’s a comfortable silence. When I begin to shiver, he helps me from the tub, wrapping me in a towel. His touch is deliberate, restrained, intimate without crossing the line he’s drawn for himself. One I definitely want him to cross. He guides me to the bed and sits beside me instead of hovering, his knee brushing mine.
