“I know,” he says, just as firm. “And I’m going to help you.”
My chest tightens. I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him.
He leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze locked on mine. “I’ve got some time,” he says. “They’ve got other teams out covering rescues right now. I can help you look.”
“You’d do that?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.
His expression shifts, something almost incredulous flashing across his face.
“Willow,” he says quietly, “of course I would.”
Something in my chest cracks open a little wider. Because he means it. I can see it.
I nod quickly, my grip tightening on the coffee cup. “Okay. Okay, we need to—” I glance down at myself, suddenly aware of how damp and uncomfortable I still feel. “I need to change.”
“Yeah,” he says, like he already thought of that. He reaches down beside the cot and lifts a small bundle. “Got you something.”
I take it from him, unfolding it slightly. Clothes. Clean and dry. Way too big—but I don’t care.
Relief floods through me. “Thank you.”
He shrugs like it’s nothing, but I catch the way his eyes soften again. “There’s a changing area set up over there.”
I follow his gaze to a section of the shelter partitioned off with makeshift curtains.
I nod. “I’ll be quick.”
He stands as I do, giving me space, but I can still feel him there. Still feel his presence like something solid and grounding at my back.
Like if I reach for him— He’ll still be there. I slip into the changing area, pulling the curtain closed behind me. For a second, I just stand there. The clothes clutched in my hands.
And all I can think about is him. The way he held me. The way he said he wouldn’t let anything happen to me again. My fingers tighten slightly in the fabric.
Because whatever this is—It’s not over. It never really ended.
I shake my head, forcing myself to focus, and quickly change into the dry clothes. They hang off me, the shirt swallowing my frame, the sleeves too long, but they’re warm.
I step back out, pushing the curtain aside.
Garrison’s right where I left him. Of course he is. His gaze lifts the second I appear.
“You good?” he asks, his voice a little rougher than before.
I nod. “Yeah.”
His eyes linger for half a second longer, then he clears his throat, turning slightly. “Alright. Let’s go.”
We move together, weaving through the shelter, past people wrapped in blankets, past volunteers handing out food and water. The air is thick with exhaustion. With relief.
I stay close to him without thinking. Not touching. Just… close.
Outside, the storm has passed, but it’s left its mark. The sky is gray and heavy. The ground is soaked, littered with debris. And the water—the water is still everywhere.
Garrison leads me toward a dark SUV parked near the edge of the lot. He opens the passenger door for me without a word.
“Willow,” he says softly.
I look up at him.
