When I mention the shower, I do it carefully, like I’m handling something fragile. “You don’t have to,” I tell her. “But the warm water might help. I’ll stay right outside.”
She hesitates, fingers curling into the fabric at her chest, and for a second I worry I’ve pushed too far—that I’ve asked for something she isn’t ready to give. Then she looks at me, eyes tired but steady, and nods once. “I don’t think I can stand on my own,” she admits quietly. “Not yet.”
Something tightens in my throat. “Okay,” I say. “We’ll go slow.”
The bathroom fills with steam as the water warms, the sound steady and grounding. I move with deliberate care, explaining everything before I do it, giving her every chance to stop me if she needs to. When she finally lets the jacket slide from her shoulders and she lets me help her step out of the clothes she was taken in, I keep my focus on her face, on her breathing, on the way she leans slightly toward me like she’s anchoring herself there.
It hits me then, not as desire or shock, but as something quieter and deeper. The weight of trust settling heavy in my chest. This is the first time I’ve seen her like this, stripped of her armor of brightness and jokes, vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with flirting or bravado. There’s nothing performative about this, and I know this is an important moment for us.
I don’t look longer than I need to. I don’t let the moment become anything other than what it is.
I guide her under the water, one hand steady at her elbow, the other braced at her back, and she sighs when the warmth hits her skin, a sound so small and relieved it almost breaks me. I grab a washcloth, soap it carefully, and keep my movements slow and respectful, checking in with her every few seconds.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” I say quietly.
She nods, eyes closed, shoulders loosening inch by inch as the tension drains out of her. “You’re doing okay,” she murmurs, her voice thick with exhaustion. “I trust you.”
The words land harder than anything else tonight.
I help her rinse, help her sit when her knees wobble, then wrap her in a towel that’s almost too big, swallowing her whole. When she sways, I catch her without thinking, her forehead resting briefly against my chest, and I stay still, letting her take what she needs from the contact without asking for anything in return.
Back in the bedroom, I tuck her into clean sheets, make sure the room is warm, the lights low, the door locked. She reaches out before I can step away, her fingers curling weakly around my wrist.
“Don’t leave me,” she says, not quite a request, not quite a plea, but something in between.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I promise, and this time she believes me.
As she drifts toward sleep, her breathing finally evening out, I sit nearby and let myself feel it—the relief, the fear that came too late, and the overwhelming gratitude that she’s alive and here and trusting me with pieces of herself. I’m now realizing this bright sunshine doesn’t give as freely as I thought. I misunderstood her, and I realize I could probably learn quite a lot from her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
LITTLE GIRL GONE
HAZEL
Iwake up expecting fear to be the first thing I feel—that familiar jolt of panic snapping me upright before my brain can catch up—but instead there’s sunlight. For a moment, I just lie there, listening to the quiet hum of the house, the distant sound of movement somewhere down the hall, and I realize that my body doesn’t hurt the way I thought it would. I’m sore, yes, and tired in a deep, bone-weary way, but the sharp edge of terror is gone, replaced by something steadier.
Safety.
The word settles over me like a blanket I didn’t realize I was still clutching. Something I really haven’t felt in quite a long time.
I sit up slowly, testing myself, waiting for the room to tilt or my chest to tighten, but it doesn’t. My thoughts are clearer than they were last night, less jagged, and for the first time since everything went wrong, I don’t feel like I’m made ofglass. Whatever Zack did—whatever combination of patience, care, and stubborn refusal to let me fall apart alone—it worked. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stretch, feeling like myself again. Not the bright mask version, but the real one underneath who still wants to laugh, move, and feel the world instead of hiding from it.
I find him in the kitchen, because of course I do. He’s leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee, dark circles under his eyes and tension still etched into his shoulders like he hasn’t quite given himself permission to relax yet. When he looks up and sees me standing there, hair a mess, wrapped in an over-sized shirt that definitely does not belong to me, something in his expression shifts so fast it almost makes my throat tight again.
“Morning,” I say lightly, because I can. Because I want to. “Please tell me that’s coffee and not some terrifying survival protein shake.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Coffee. I’m not a monster.”
“Good,” I reply, padding closer. “Because I’m feeling remarkably human today, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
He watches me like he’s checking for cracks, but I give him a smile that isn’t forced—one that feels earned—and finally his shoulders ease just a fraction. He hands me a mug without comment, already knowing how I take it, and I lean against the counter beside him, soaking in the normalcy of the moment. I’m aware that what I’ve gone through would break most people. I’m aware that I’ve gone through isn’t anything that would happen to most people. Most people would crumble and fall apart—that’s not me, I don’t have that luxury.
“That shower last night helped,” I admit quietly. “And you staying. Thank you.”
He nods once, uncomfortable with praise but accepting it anyway. “How do you feel?”
I take a sip, considering it honestly. “Like I survived something. And like I don’t want to let it turn me into someone smaller.”
