No one saw her freeze. No one knew that for a half a second—maybe less, maybe more, she couldn’t tell anymore—she’d been paralyzed by a memory while Zeus was in danger.
She’d gotten lucky, that was all. Just sheer, dumb luck that she’d snapped out of it in time.
Zeus leaned against her, solid and alive, and she buried one hand in his fur while her heart refused to slow down. The report she’d write later would be clean and professional, as always. No one needed to know what it had cost her to reach for him. No one needed to know she’d hesitated when he needed her most.
Maddox jerked awake with a gasp that sounded too loud in the darkness. Her sheets were soaked with sweat and twisted around her legs like they were trying to tether her to this world. Her heart slammed against her ribs, and she couldn’t catch her breath, only short, sharp gasps that weren’t bringing in enough air.
Zeus was already there, up from his bed and pressing her side, whining softly. His nose nudged her hand, insistent and warm.
“I’m okay,” she tried to say, but her voice came out constricted and small.
She wasn’t okay. Her hands were shaking, her whole body was shaking, and the nightmare was still there behind her eyes—Zeus sliding toward the gap, the floor splintering, the way her body seized from terror.
Maddox swung her legs off the bed and sat on the floor, the cold hardwood floor grounding her through the fabric of her clothes. Zeus immediately climbed into her lap—too big for it, really, but he didn’t care. He pressed his full weight against her chest to let her know she’s real.
She wrapped both arms around him and buried her face in his fur, counting his heartbeats because she couldn’t trust her own.
One, two, three, four…
The clock on her nightstand read 3:17 a.m., hours still before dawn when she’d have to put on her uniform and pretend that everything was fine. Before she’d have to go back to work and trust herself to make the right calls when it mattered the most.
“You’re here,” she whispered into Zeus’s fur, her voice muffled. “You’re here. You’re okay.”
He shifted slightly, adjusting his weight so she could breathe easier, but he didn’t move away. He never did after the nightmares came. He just stayed there while she fell apart in the dark where no one could see.
Her face was wet. She didn’t cry—hadn’t cried in years—but apparently, her body didn’t care what she thought about that. The tears came anyway, silent and hot, soaking into Zeus’s fur while her chest ached with something that felt too big to contain.
It’d been four months since the warehouse. Four months of this nightmare playing on repeat, sometimes one a week, sometimes every night for a week straight. Four months of reliving the moment she froze, the moment she lost him, the moment that proved she couldn’t trust herself.
That’s why therapy wouldn’t work. This was what she couldn’t say out loud.
Because if Jade knew—ifanyoneknew—they’d see her the way she saw herself: as someone who sent her partner into danger then hesitated when needing to make the right call. Assomeone who’d already lost one dog to her own bad calls and had nearly lost another. As someone who couldn’t be trusted.
Zeus’s tongue swiped across her jaw, warm and insistent, pulling her back to the present. She loosened her grip on him slightly, only just realizing she’d been holding too tight, and he settled more comfortably against her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”
For sending him up those stairs, for getting lucky instead of being competent, for every call between then and now where she second-guessed herself and wondered if this would be the time her luck ran out.
Zeus sighed heavily and rested his head on her shoulder, unbothered by her apologies and her guilt. He was here; that’s all that mattered to him.
Maddox sat on the cold floor and watched the darkness beyond her window slowly lighten toward dawn. She wouldn’t sleep again tonight, wouldn’t risk another round with the nightmare, so she just sat there and breathed.
Four more days until therapy when Jade would ask questions that circled closer and closer to the truth Maddox couldn’t afford to tell. She’d handle it as she always did. She’d show up, sit in that chair, and keep her barriers exactly where they needed to be. Because the alternative—letting Jade seethis—was unthinkable.
“We’re okay,” she said quietly, testing the words to see if they were solid enough to be trusted. “We’re both okay.”
Neither of them believed it, but at least they were together waiting out the darkness until a new day.
4
The pothos on Jade’s windowsill had finally stopped looking like hostages. She stood at the kitchen sink, watering can in hand, watching the water darken the soil until it was damp throughout.
Two months in Phoenix Ridge, and the plants were the first things that seemed to have settled. Their leaves reached toward the morning light with something close to confidence, trailing over the edge of the pot in long, healthy vines.
The apartment still held its temporary quality: boxes she hadn’t gotten around to unpacking, furniture arranged more for function than comfort, and walls bare except for the calendar she’d hung to track her sessions. But the plants thrived and the coffee maker found its permanent spot on the counter and she no longer had to think about which cabinet held the mugs.
Small victories.
