I hate how much it feels like losing.
Ethan doesn’t react the way I expect. He doesn’t take over, doesn’t push. He just watches me, steady and patient, letting the moment settle.
“For the first time since I got here, I don’t know what to do,” I admit, my voice dropping further. “And I hate that.”
His thumb shifts slightly against my skin, grounding, steady.
“You don’t have to like it,” he says.
“That’s not helpful.”
“You don’t have to handle it alone either.”
That hits harder than anything else.
“I’ve been alone a long time,” I say.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
I shake my head. “You don’t know what it’s like to rely on yourself for everything. To not have a backup plan. To not have anyone stepping in when things go wrong.”
His gaze doesn’t waver.
“Look around.”
I blink. “What?”
“You’ve got backup now.”
My breath catches.
Because he’s not wrong.
Because I can feel it.
And that terrifies me almost as much as the man in the woods.
“I didn’t ask for that,” I say.
“No.”
“I didn’t ask for you.”
His mouth curves slightly. “Yeah,” he says. “You did.”
I shake my head. “Not like this.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
He steps closer, not forcing, not crowding, just closing the space enough that I feel it, enough that something inside me steadies without my permission.
“You’re still here,” he says.
