The panic had been immediate. Overwhelming. Every instinct screaming that I'd made a terrible mistake, that I'd given him power over me I could never take back, that waking up next to him meant something permanent I wasn't ready for.
Meant he thought he owned me now.
I'd needed him gone. Needed space between us before that irrational terror consumed me entirely. So I'd put on my armor—the careful neutral face, the polite distance, the clear dismissal. Watched him absorb each word like a physical blow and told myself it was necessary.
Told myself I was protecting us both.
Except the armor doesn't work anymore. Hasn't worked since the moment he walked out my door looking like I'd gutted him.
I draw my knees up, pressing my forehead against them while my chest constricts. The memories are worse now. Louder. Like pushing Falla away opened some floodgate I'd been keeping sealed through sheer force of will.
Hands holding me down. Laughter as I struggled. Pain that went on and on until I couldn't tell where my body ended and the hurt began.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to breathe through the rising panic. These aren't new memories. I've lived with them every day since Kai and the others pulled me from that Stonevein camp. The difference is that before this week, I could manage them. Could lock them away in some mental box and function around their edges.
Now they bleed into everything.
Because I let myself feel safe with Falla. Let myself believe that maybe not all orcs were monsters. That maybe I could trust one enough to be vulnerable again.
And the second I woke up next to him, my brain couldn't handle the cognitive dissonance. Couldn't reconcileorcwithsafewhile fear chemicals flooded my system and old trauma screamed warnings I couldn't ignore.
So I panicked. Pushed him away. Chose familiar isolation over terrifying intimacy because at least I know how to survive alone.
Except I don't want to be alone anymore.
The thought sits heavy in my chest, undeniable despite every instinct telling me to bury it. I don't want to hide in this cabin avoiding the world. Don't want to spend my days managing fear and my nights fighting nightmares.
I want to laugh at Falla's dry observations. Want to feel his hands gentle on my skin. Want to watch him create rainbows with quiet focus while sunlight catches in his blue-green eyes.
I wanthim.
But wanting isn't enough when fear keeps its claws buried so deep I can't think past their grip. When waking up next to him sent me spiraling so hard I couldn't even articulate why except that he's an orc and orcs hurt me and my body knows that truth in ways my mind can't override.
He hasn't come to check on me. Two days of silence after weeks of regular visits to monitor my healing. The absence feels deliberate. Final.
I told him we were done, so he's respecting my wishes. Giving me exactly what I asked for.
Why does getting what I asked for feel like punishment?
A knock at my door makes me jolt, my heart immediately racing. I consider not answering. Pretending I'm not home even though smoke from my small fire clearly marks my presence.
"Ressa?" Saela's voice carries through the wood. "I know you're in there."
Shae's lower tone follows. "We brought tea. And food. And we're not leaving until you let us in."
My chest tightens further. I'm not ready for this conversation. Not ready to see Saela's knowing eyes or Shae's motherly concern. Not ready to admit out loud that I ruined something good because my brain can't tell the difference between past and present.
But they're not going away. And part of me—the part that's been drowning in isolation these past two days—desperately wants someone to throw me a rope.
I force myself to stand, wrapping the blanket around my shoulders like armor as I cross to the door. My reflection in the small mirror catches my attention—hollow eyes, pale skin, hair I haven't properly brushed since that morning. I look exactly like I did in those first terrible weeks.
Look like I'm disappearing again.
The door opens to reveal both women on my small porch, concern clear on their faces. Saela's gray-green eyes scan me head to toe, her mouth tightening. Shae balances a basket that smells like bread and something savory.
"Oh, honey." Shae's voice carries such gentle sympathy I have to look away. "Can we come in?"
I step back wordlessly, letting them enter. Saela moves past me with familiar ease—we've shared enough space over the years that she doesn't need invitation. Shae follows more carefully, her warm green eyes taking in the cabin's state.
