Her breathing evens just enough for her body to loosen under my hands. Not relaxed. But less rigid. Less trapped.
And as her fingers tighten slightly in my shirt, something dark and cold settles inside my chest. Not fear this time.
Resolve.
War.
No one will ever reduce her to this again.
Her breathing evens out enough that the panic stops clawing at her chest. She blinks—slow, groggy—lifting her head from the pillow. The towel slips slightly, and I adjust it without thinking, keeping her covered.
Then her eyes drift past me.
To the duffel bag on the bed.
Open. Half-packed. Clothes spilling out like she abandoned the task mid-panic.
Everything inside me freezes.
She wasn’t just spiraling.
She was going to run.
“Lucky…” I start, but she pushes her palms to the mattress and forces herself upright, wincing as the movement pulls at her overheated skin.
“I—” Her voice cracks. She swallows again. “I don’t… I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry. I’m—”
“You don’t need to apologize,” I say immediately, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. “It’s the stress. Everything you’re carrying. You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
She goes still beneath my touch.
Then she pulls away.
“You should go, Ethan.”
My jaw tightens. “I’m not leaving you like this.”
“It’s better if you do.”
“Better for who?” I ask, voice sharper than I intend. “Because it looks a hell of a lot like you’re pushing me out to protect yourself.”
Her eyes flash—anger, fear, both. “I don’t need protecting.”
“No?” I gesture at the duffel. “That's why you were about to bolt in the middle of the fuckin’ day?”
She stiffens.
Yeah. That hits.
“Don’t,” she whispers.
“Then tell me the truth.”
Silence stretches tight between us.
I break it.
“I know who you are.”
