For a half-second, her hand lifts — like she’s reaching for me, or for something to hold on to. But she catches herself, fingers curling into her palm so hard they shake.
That small aborted gesture wrecks me more than any words could.
“Lucky, you’re shaking.”
“I said I’m fine.”
She turns away, pacing a tight little line, fingers yanking through her hair. She’s breathing too fast — hyperventilation edging closer with every second. I’ve seen this before. Combat stress. Panic attacks. Soldiers haunted by things they refuse to speak aloud.
This is the same look. The same tremor. The same fear of being seen.
“Did something happen? Was it the call?” I ask quietly. “You can tell me.”
She stops pacing. Her back rises once, sharply. Then she spins around, eyes wild and shining with something she’s trying desperately to outrun.
“Don’t,” she whispers. “Don’t do that. Don’t… be kind. It’ll make it worse.”
Worse for whom?
Her?
Or me?
I take one more step, heart pounding because every instinct screams to grab her, hold her, protect her from whatever ghost is clawing at her. I want to wrap my arms around her and let her fall apart against me. I want to kiss her until she remembers she’s safe.
But I know — I know — that would only push her further. She’d shut down harder, run faster.
So I hold back.
“I’m trying to help.”
“I don’t want help,” she snaps, but her voice wavers. “Okay? I just need… space. I’m fine. I just need to write. Just— just go home, Ethan.”
“No.” The word leaves before I can stop it. “I’m not leaving you like this.”
Her jaw clenches, but her eyes… they flicker with fear. Defiance. Shame.
“Lucky,” I say softly, “you’re terrified. I can see it. Let me in.”
“You are in,” she says with a broken laugh. “You’re literally in my house, Maddox.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
For a heartbeat, she meets my eyes, and I see everything. The exhaustion. The trembling. The hollow fear. The part of her begging to be held. And the louder part is shoving me away.
Then it’s gone. She flips the switch. Shuts it all down.
“You need to go,” she whispers.
“I’m not leaving until you tell me—”
“Ethan,” she says, voice flat now, deadened, stripped of everything vulnerable. “Please.”
That word.
Spoken like surrender.
Spoken like she’s drowning and won’t grab the hand right in front of her.
