She resists for half a second out of reflex.
Then her body gives in, because it wants it, and she all but melts into me.
Her head rests against my chest. Her cheek presses into my shirt. I can feel her whole body tremble with the release, the weight of it all finally landing on her.
I wrap my arm around her, holding her steady.
“Sleep,” I murmur. “I’ve got you.”
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. Her breathing changes almost immediately, slowing into a rhythm that’s deeper than it’s been all day.
Her fingers uncurl from my thigh and rest against my leg, slack.
I watch the doors for her.
Nothing.
No doctor. No nurse. No update.
I hate hospitals. I hate waiting rooms. I hate the way you can be surrounded by people and still feel like the only person in the world.
Erica’s fingers tighten once on my thigh.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, barely audible, like she’s apologizing for leaning.
My hand slides up, thumb brushing the side of her neck.
“No.”
A pause.
Then she whispers, “Bianca… she’s nice.”
I don’t answer right away, because the words aren’t really about Bianca.
They’re about what happened in that bathroom.
They’re about whatever Erica is holding inside her right now, wrapped up so tightly she can barely breathe around it.
I keep my eyes on the doors.
“She is,” I say.
Erica’s breath catches. A tiny hiccup she tries to swallow.
I don’t push.
I don’t ask.
I just stay where I am and let her use me as a wall.
Her eyelids droop again.
She fights it again.
I tighten my arm around her shoulders, the lightest pressure.
“Erica.”
