THIRTY-FOUR
Idon’t know how it happens, but somewhere between Elliot’s endless chatter and Kai’s quiet watching, my body finally gives in.
When I wake, it’s with a dull ache running through me. My limbs are heavy, stiff, and my bruises throb. The room is dark now, except for the fireplace.
I push myself upright, groaning softly. My head slips off something soft—a pillow. One I don’t remember being there before. On the small table beside me sits a glass of water, beads of condensation still clinging to it, and a blister pack of paracetamol.
I blink, staring.Did Kai…?
The thought curls in my chest, unsettling and warm all at once, and I shake my head as if that could chase it away.
I swallow the pills, sip the water, and sit for a moment, staring into the fire. But sleep feels impossible now, so I get to my feet. My body protests every step, but I move anyway, padding quietly through the darkened hall.
That’s when I see a figure, half-shadow, bent over the drawers in the kitchen. My breath catches, heart hammering in my chest.
An intruder. Or worse.Him.
My hand shoots to the counter, fingers closing around the first thing I find—a mug—and I raise it, ready to throw.
The figure straightens.
“Don’t shatter that cup, it’s part of a set,” a familiar voice says dryly.
I freeze. “…Sue?”
She turns, one brow arched, a tin of tea clutched in her hand. “Who else?”
Relief crashes through me so hard my knees nearly buckle.
“Oh.” The word comes out shaky, my grip loosening on the mug. I set it back on the counter before I actually drop it. “Yes. Of course.”
Sue eyes me for a beat, then sighs and shuts the drawer with her hip. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Felt like one,” I admit, exhaling hard.
For a moment I just stand there, bare feet cold against the tiles, staring at the faint ripple of steam rising from her tin. The adrenaline drains out of me in one rush, leaving only exhaustion.
I tell myself I should go back. Back to the couch, back to warmth, back to pretending there’s such a thing as sleep left for me. But the truth, the truth I’m only now beginning to understand, is that I’m exhausted in the kind of way even sleep can’t seem to fix.
I had forced myself into believing I’d be alright. That I could walk this off, cry it out, plaster over the cracks and keep moving. That some masked shadow lurking outside couldn’t change me, not really.
But standing here, my hands trembling against the counter, I realize that maybe it already has.
I rub at my eyes, blinking hard, swallowing the lump in my throat before it can take shape. I don’t cry. I won’t cry.
But I am tired. So very tired.
Beside me, Sue clicks her tongue. “You need more than tea.”
I glance at her, startled. She’s leaning against the counter now, arms folded, tin forgotten.
“I’m fine,” I murmur, too fast.
Sue raises an eyebrow.
Heat creeps up the back of my neck. “I just… I don’t want to—”
“Cry?” she cuts in, and her tone is sharp, but there’s no cruelty in it.
