She wasn’t panicking.
She was waiting.
For the door to open. For footsteps that didn’t belong. For the moment her instincts would be proven right.
That kind of vigilance didn’t shut off just because someone told you that you were safe. It burned itself into muscle memory. Into breath. Into posture.
I stayed where I was and let her see me not moving. Not hovering. Not ordering her to lie down or close her eyes.
Just present.
I didn’t say anything about it. I just kicked off my cut and dropped into the chair beside the bed. Same spot I’d been in last night. Same spot I’d be in tomorrow if she needed it.
She looked over at me, quick and unsure, before sliding under the blanket. She didn’t ask me to stay. But she didn’t have to. I wasn’t leaving.
Minutes passed.
Then half an hour.
The room stayed quiet except for her uneven breathing.
She finally whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t start,” I said.
Her fingers curled tighter in the blanket. “I don’t want to be… like this.”
She said it like an apology.
Like fear was a personal failing instead of a response to something done to her. Like if she could just grit her teeth hardenough, she’d snap back into the version of herself that existed before elevators and locked doors and men who smiled too much.
I hated that instinct in her.
Hated it because I’d carried it myself for years. Because I knew how easy it was to confuse endurance with strength, and silence with control.
Fear didn’t mean she was weak.
It meant her body remembered.
“Like what?”
She swallowed. “Jumping at everything. Hearing things that aren’t there. Acting like I’m gonna break.”
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “You’re not breaking.”
She didn’t argue.
She didn’t agree either.
Another long minute went by.
Then she said, voice barely audible, “When he smiled… I knew he saw me. Like he had already decided something about me before I even understood what was happening.”
My stomach clenched. I gripped the edge of the chair so I didn’t punch something.
“You weren’t wrong,” I said. “He did see you. And I’m gonna make him regret it.”
“That’s not—” she breathed in sharply. “I’m not scared of him hurting me. I’m scared of being that useless again. Frozen. Watching. Doing nothing.”
