I meet her eyes. “She’s okay,” I say firmly, steadying my voice for her sake. “She’s already coming up. She just needs a few minutes.”
Ava’s gaze flicks to the glucometer, then back to her daughter, then finally to me, like she’s trying to anchor herself to anything that isn’t sheer terror. The trembling slows—not a lot, but enough. She leans forward, cupping Violet’s cheek with a gentleness that nearly folds me in half.
“I’m right here,” she whispers, voice thick and breaking at the edges. “I’m right here, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
Violet sips again. Her hands loosen a little. Her shoulders drop. The numbers tick up, slow but steady—forty-eight, fifty-two, fifty-seven.
I stay beside her on the floor, quietly counting breaths, watching the signs I know by heart: the return of warmth to her fingers,the soft flush coming back into her cheeks, the way her eyes begin focusing again instead of drifting.
When she finally looks at me—really looks—I see the fear receding. Exhaustion settles in its place, heavy and soft.
“Better?” I ask.
She nods weakly. “Yeah. Just… tired.”
Ava sinks into the chair beside her, pulling Violet gently against her chest. Relief radiates off her so intensely it’s almost its own light.
“I’m so proud of you,” she whispers, kissing her daughter’s hair. “You handled it so well. You always do.”
Violet’s voice drifts, barely above breath. “Jax helped.”
Ava’s eyes move to me again. There’s a different kind of emotion there now—gratitude so raw it feels like something I’m not built to receive. “Thank you,” she says, voice soft but weighted with everything she doesn’t know how to say out loud. “I didn’t… I didn’t even know you were awake.”
“I heard her,” I reply. “She was trying to be quiet.”
“She always tries,” Ava whispers, brushing a tear from Violet’s cheek. “Even when she shouldn’t.”
The silence that follows is warm, fragile. Violet leans fully into her mother now, safe, steady, breathing easier with each passing second. I stand slowly, giving them room even though something inside me resists the distance.
Ava looks up at me once more, her eyes still damp, her voice steadier than before. “You were… you were so calm.”
I shrug, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck. “Someone had to be.”
Something shifts between us—quiet as dawn, subtle as breath, an unspoken acknowledgment passing through the space likewarmth in cold air. I don’t know what it is or what to do with it. I just know I wasn’t ready for it. Not at all.
My throat is dry. My hands feel too big. The urge to leave and the urge to stay crash into each other so hard it makes my heartbeat stumble.
I clear my throat. “She… should eat something. Now that her numbers are climbing, it’ll help stabilize her.” I nod toward the fridge. “I can make breakfast.”
Ava blinks like she doesn’t quite understand the offer. Maybe she doesn’t. Hell, I don’t. But I’m already moving, reaching for the pan, setting the stove to heat, pulling eggs from the carton before I can talk myself out of it.
“You don’t have to—” she starts.
“I know,” I cut in gently. “I’m doing it anyway.”
She lets out a slow breath, something halfway between relief and disbelief. Violet watches me too, her eyes still tired but curious now—like she’s trying to figure out why the grumpy stranger with a generator is suddenly cooking her scrambled eggs.
The scent of butter hits the air. The eggs crack cleanly into the pan. The motions are familiar, muscle memory that feels foreign in this cabin that has never held anyone but me. I move quietly, aware of every sound—the spatula scraping the skillet, the soft murmur of Ava calming her daughter, the faint hum of the heater fighting the cold outside.
By the time the eggs are done and the toast pops up golden, Violet’s coloring has returned enough that she sits up straighter. Ava helps her to the table, still keeping one steadying hand on her back.
“Here,” I say, placing the plate down in front of the kid. “Small bites. Take your time.”
“Thank you,” Violet whispers, her voice small but earnest.
Her mother echoes it with her eyes more than her words.
I nod once, unable to trust myself to say anything more without revealing too much.
