This time, it doesn’t shake.
In the middleof the night, he wakes up sitting straight up, breath sharp.
I’m already reaching for him.
“Hey,” I whisper. “Saint. It’s okay.”
He blinks, looks around, and then at me.
And then he does something I’ve never seen him do.
He falls apart.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just silent tears sliding into his hair as he presses his face into my shoulder.
“I couldn’t stop them,” he says. “If they’d gotten her—”
“They didn’t,” I say firmly. “You did stop them.”
He nods, but it’s the kind of nod that means he’s still fighting ghosts.
I hold him until the fight leaves his body.
In the morning,he makes coffee like he’s learning how to use his hands again.
He burns the toast.
I don’t tease him.
We eat it anyway.
He watches Emmy like she’s a miracle that might vanish if he looks away.
“She’s safe,” I remind him.
“I know,” he says. “I just like seeing it.”
I reach across the table and lace my fingers through his.
He squeezes back.
Not careful this time.
Certain.
99
Laney
It doesn’t happen all at once.
Healing never does.
It starts in the kitchen, with burned toast and quiet laughter that surprises both of us.
