Like she’s something breakable.
Even though I know she’s anything but.
The medic steps in immediately, voice calm, practiced.
“Scout, I’m going to check your vitals—”
“I’m fine,” she says automatically.
I don’t interfere.
I just stay where I am.
Close enough.
Visible.
She notices.
Of course she does.
Her eyes flick to me as the medic works, grounding herself between questions, between touches, between the reality of beinghandledagain.
“You’re not fine,” I say quietly.
The medic pauses.
Scout looks at me.
Not defensive.
Not offended.
Just… honest.
“No,” she admits. “I’m not.”
That’s the first crack.
And it’s not weakness.
It’s trust.
I step a little closer—not touching, just there.
“You don’t have to be,” I tell her.
Her breath catches.
Not from pain.
From the permission.
For a second, everything else falls away—the room, the noise, the aftermath—and it’s just the two of us standing in the space between what happened…
…and what comes next.
“They’re going to ask questions,” she says.
