Even if she never looked back.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Joshua
By the time I got her out of the building, she wasn’t fighting me anymore. Not talking. Not crying. Not even trembling, just… still.
The drive was silent. Streetlights flickered over her face, pale and blank. Every few seconds, I looked over just to make sure she was still breathing.
I didn’t even think about where we were going until I was unlocking my front door. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
She didn’t question it. Didn’t ask why. Just let me guide her inside, shoes squeaking on the floor, water dripping from her soaked clothes onto the marble.
“Sit,” I whispered, voice hoarse. She didn’t.
So I lifted her. Carried her.
Her weight against me felt wrong, not heavy, but light in the worst way. Like she’d given up on gravity.
I set her down on the couch in my room; the material darkened under her wet clothes. She blinked once, slowly, and then not at all.
“I’ll—uh—get something dry,” I muttered, half to myself. My voice cracked halfway through.
The closet door creaked open. Hoodie. Sweatpants. Something soft. Anything.
When I came back, she hadn’t moved.
“Come on,” I said quietly, reaching for her hand. Her fingers were cold. “You’ll get sick.”
Still nothing. But when I tugged, she followed. Barely. Like her body was on autopilot.
The bathroom light burned too brightly against the dark of the hall. I set the clothes on the counter, turned the water on for a second just to warm the air, and pointed to the towel rack.
“You can—change,” I said, turning away.
But I didn’t leave.
I couldn’t.
I just stood facing the door, eyes fixed on the handle.
If I left, she’d lock it. If she locked it, I might never hear her again.
So I stood there.
The sound of fabric hitting tile, wet clothes peeling off skin, filled the silence.
My heart wouldn’t calm down. Every sound made my chest ache.
Then quiet.
Too quiet.
“…Aurora?” I whispered.
No answer.
I turned before I could talk myself out of it.
