Wrecker shifted the blankets higher around us, careful not to break the contact. His arm stayed wrapped around my shoulders, protective without being heavy.
“You sleep,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
I didn’t argue.
I let myself sink back against him, letting his heartbeat anchor me to the present. The guilt was still there. The fear hadn’t disappeared.
But for the first time since the elevator doors closed, I wasn’t alone with it.
And as the dark outside the window slowly softened toward morning, I realized something else too.
Freezing hadn’t ended me.
It hadn’t erased me.
And with him here. Steady, quiet, unflinching. I could finally believe that surviving counted.
9
WRECKER
Amanda hadn’t slept much after the nightmare.
Neither had I.
She moved through the morning like she didn’t trust stillness. Pacing instead of sitting, hands flexing like she was checking whether they still belonged to her. Watching doors. Watching space. Watching me.
When she finally spoke, it wasn’t about the dream.
“I need to move,” she said quietly.
Not fight.
Not train.
Just move.
Something in my chest tightened at that. I recognized it. The itch under the skin. The way stillness made everything louder.
“Okay,” I told her.
So I brought her somewhere movement made sense.
The training room smelled like sweat and rubber mats and old metal.
It always did. The place didn’t change for anyone. You walked in carrying whatever you brought with you, and the room met you exactly where you were.
Amanda stood across from me, feet planted wrong, shoulders too tight, fists clenched like she expected them to shake apart if she loosened them even a little. She wore borrowed sweats and one of my old T-shirts, the hem hanging past her hips. Her hair was pulled back, but loose strands kept slipping free, sticking to the side of her neck where her pulse jumped every time she swallowed.
“Again,” I said.
She lifted her hands, tried to mirror my stance, then faltered halfway through the movement. Her weight shifted too far back, heel lifting.
I caught her elbow before she could tip.
“Damn it.” She yanked her arm free and dropped both hands. “I don’t get it.”
“You’re thinking too much.”
