I kill the engine and stand there, helmet under my arm, staring at the front door like it might give me answers if I stare long enough.
She might not be home, I tell myself, or she could’ve passed out early. I wait. Five minutes. Ten. I sit on the front porch steps, elbows on my knees, helmet resting between my boots. I tell myself I’m being stupid. That this is crossing a line. That I should leave, but I don’t. Because every instinct I have is screaming that she’s inside sleeping. Shutting the world out. Hurting.
I stay longer than I should. Long enough that the quiet starts to feel wrong. Then I hear it. A scream. Short. Raw. Terrified. My blood goes ice cold. I’m on my feet instantly, shoulder slamming into the door without hesitation. The lock gives with a crack, wood splintering as I burst inside.
“SAVANNAH!” I shout, already moving, heart pounding like it’s trying to break free of my chest.
I don’t think about the consequences. I don’t think about permission. All I know is that she screamed and nobody gets to hurt her, not my Firecracker.
I hit the bedroom doorway at a run and have to stop myself from charging the rest of the way in.
She’s in the bed.
Curled up tight, sheets twisted around her legs like she’s been fighting them, hair a rumpled mess against the pillow. Her eyes are open too wide, glossy and terrified, tracking the doorway like she’s braced for something to come through it.
Not me.
Two cats are pressed against her. One sprawled over her chest, kneading like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the world. The other crouched near her shoulder, tail puffed, hissing low at me until it recognizes I’m not the threat.
My chest locks up.
She looks beautiful and wrecked and scared out of her damn mind, and the sight of it makes something vicious curl in my gut.
“Firecracker,” I say, rough and urgent. “What’s wrong?”
She flinches anyway.
Shakes her head, throat tight, eyes still darting like the room won’t hold still. When she speaks, it barely clears her lips. “Lucky?”
I move immediately. Three long strides and I’m at the side of the bed, anger bleeding out of me the second I really look at her. The terror in her eyes punches harder than anything else could.
“Yeah, baby,” I say, softer now, steady on purpose. “It’s me.”
I crouch down beside the bed, putting myself lower, making sure I’m not looming over her. I’ve scared people before without meaning to. I won’t do that to her.
“What happened?” I ask quietly. “I heard you screaming.”
Her chest stutters on the inhale, like her lungs forgot the order of things. She looks distant, skin buzzing, eyes unfocused like part of her is still somewhere else.
“I… I thought…” She swallows hard. “I didn’t know if I was awake.”
That hits deeper than I’m ready for.
My hand lifts on instinct, then stops short. I hover instead, close enough she can see it, far enough she doesn’t feel trapped. It’s killing me not to touch her, not to pull her into my arms and lock the world out.
“You are,” I tell her quietly. “You’re here. You’re safe.”
I hold her gaze, let my voice do the work my hands can’t yet.
“Talk to me.”
And I swear to God, whatever did this to her is going to answer for it.
I wait.
That’s the hardest part. Not moving. Not touching. Letting her set the pace when every instinct in me is screaming to gather her up and lock her away from anything that’s ever hurt her.
Her breathing is still uneven, shallow little pulls of air like she doesn’t trust it to stay. The cat on her chest keeps purring, loud and insistent, like it’s trying to stitch her back together one vibration at a time.
