The movement caught her attention. Her head snapped up, eyes wild and unfocused, looking for danger. For a moment she didn't see me—she saw something else, maybe Brand's men, maybe older threats, maybe just the shapeless terror that came for her in the dark. Her whole body coiled tighter, ready to fight or run even though there was nowhere to go.
Then her eyes found mine and held.
Recognition came in stages. First just that I was there, real, not whatever nightmare she'd been lost in. Then who I was—not danger, not enemy, just the man who'd killed for her and would do it again without hesitation. Finally, confusion. Why was I sitting on her floor at two-forty in the morning?
I didn't move. Didn't speak. Just held her gaze and let her process my presence at her own speed. Her breathing was still too fast, but the wild edge was fading. The hand near her mouth lowered slightly, though I could see the effort it took.
She was so fucking beautiful it hurt to look at her. Not magazine beautiful, not perfect features and flawless skin. Beautiful in the way broken things were when they kept functioning anyway. The shadows under her eyes like bruises. The mess of dark hair escaping from what had probably started as a bun. The way her whole body telegraphed exhaustion but she still held herself ready to fight.
The silence stretched between us, but it wasn't empty. It was full of her ragged breathing slowly steadying, full of my presence saying things I couldn't put into words. That she wasn't alone. That someone saw her falling apart and didn't run. That it was okay to not be okay, even if neither of us really believed that.
Her thumb crept toward her mouth again, and she jerked it down, shame flooding her features even in the dim light.
"Don't," I said, the word coming out rougher than intended.
She froze, probably expecting judgment or disgust or whatever she'd been telling herself she deserved. Instead, I shifted slightly, then just smiled.
"Why are you here?" The question was soft, curious rather than accusatory.
"Saw your light on the monitors." No point lying. "Saw you pacing. Then saw you . . ." I gestured vaguely at her corner, at the way she'd made herself small.
"And you thought, what? That you'd come babysit the broken doctor?"
There was a bite to the words, but it was protective rather than aggressive. She was so used to being seen as weak, as something that needed fixing or managing. But that wasn't what I saw when I looked at her.
"I thought," I said slowly, "that being alone with that kind of pain makes it worse. That sometimes you need someone to sit with you. Not fix you. Not save you. Just . . . be there."
Something in her face cracked at that, and fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. Not the hysteria of panic, just the quiet grief of someone who'd been alone so long they'd forgotten what company felt like.
The tears kept coming, silent now except for the occasional hiccup that shook her whole body. I stayed exactly where I was, back against the wall, letting her cry without commentary or comfort that might feel like pressure.
She tried to stop—I could see her fighting it, pressing her palms against her eyes, holding her breath to cut off the sobs. Her whole body went rigid with the effort of containing what needed to escape.
"Don't," I said again, softer this time. "Let it happen. No one's watching. No one's judging. Just let it happen."
"I can't—" Her voice broke on the words. "If I start really crying, I might never stop."
"You will." I shifted slightly, not closer, just adjusting my position against the wall. "Body can't sustain that level of stress response indefinitely. Eventually the parasympathetic nervous system kicks in, forces a reset. You know this. You're a doctor."
A sound escaped her that might have been a laugh or another sob. "Always a doctor. Even when I'm falling apart in a corner."
"Especially then. It's who you are, not what you do."
She looked at me through her fingers, eyes red and swollen, and something in her posture eased fractionally. Not trust exactly, but maybe the beginning of it. Without seeming to realize it, she shifted slightly toward me, still in her corner but a few inches closer. Her body seeking warmth or comfort or just the presence of another living thing who wasn't trying to kill her.
The crying slowed eventually, like she was running out of tears or energy or both. She wiped her face with the hem of the borrowed t-shirt, and I caught a glimpse of pale skin at herwaist that made me look away. Not the time. Never the time with someone this broken, this vulnerable.
"How do you do it?" she asked suddenly, voice hoarse from crying.
"Do what?"
"Live with the death? The violence?" She pulled her knees tighter to her chest. "I've seen what you can do. What you did to those men. You didn't even hesitate. Just . . . destroyed them. How do you keep going after that? How do you sleep?"
The question hung between us, and I could have lied. Could have given her the standard tough-guy bullshit about not feeling anything, about being dead inside, about violence being just another tool. But there had been enough lies and deceit in her life.
"I don't know," I admitted. "I don't think I have a choice."
"Everyone has a choice."
