“Yes,” I confirm. “I said that.”
She stares at me for a moment longer before her gaze drops to her hands. To the mess. To the smear across her coat.
Her breath shakes, and instead of letting the relief in, she does what I’m beginning to recognize as her default.
She runs. Not out the door.Inward.
She turns abruptly and bolts down the hallway.
“Jane—”
The slam of the bathroom door echoes through the cabin like a verdict.
I stand there for a second, my pulse racing, and force myself to move.
I don’t chase people. I don’t corner them. But I also don’t let a wounded animal bleed out alone in a place that’s supposed to be safe.
I walk to the bathroom door and stop. On the other side, there’s silence, then the sound of water turning on.
My jaw clenches as I wait. A minute. Two.
No movement. No voice. Just water and quiet.
“Jane.” I keep my voice level. “I’m out here. Whenever you’re ready.”
No answer.
I wait another thirty seconds before trying the knob. Locked. Of course it is.
Exhaling through my nose, I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the wood.
Think. Don’t force it. Don’t make her feel trapped. Don’t be another man telling her what she is.
“Jane,” I repeat, softer now. “I’m not coming in. I just want to know you’re okay.”
Still nothing. The water keeps running. Too long.
My heart falters. I’m not scared of blood or injury. I’m not scared of emergencies. I’m scared of a woman sitting alone with a hurt she doesn’t know how to name. Because I know what that looks like. I’ve lived inside it.
The water stops, and silence swallows the cabin again.
Then, a small sound, barely audible. A sniff. A breath pulled in too sharply. She’s crying.
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
I press my palm against the door. “Will you let me in, Jane?”
A pause. Then her muffled voice. "Go away."
“No.”
Another pause. “You can’t just?—”
“I can,” I cut in. “Because I brought you here. I’m responsible for this, and you’re not sittin’ in there thinking you have to earn a damn thing from me.”
Silence. Then, softly, as if she hates herself for it, “I smell like cow shit.”
That would make me laugh under different circumstances, but right now, it makes my chest ache.
