Hands are on me. Real ones. Warm. Micah is there, kneeling beside the bed, panic etched across his face. He grabs my shoulders gently, grounding me as I shake. “You’re okay,” he says urgently. “You’re here. You’re safe. It was just a nightmare.”
I’m still gasping, tears streaming down my face, the image burned into my mind. Chains. Blood. Dead eyes.
Forget about me.
I press my hands to my face, my whole body trembling. I’m sweating, but Micah doesn’t hesitate. He brushes the damp strands of hair back from my face. Moonlight spills through the window, painting silver over the scattered tattoos on his bare skin.
Heather appears a second later, climbing into bed, her eyes wide and worried. She’s wearing her pink pajama pants set. “Emma,” she says gently. “What happened? Are you alright?”
It takes a moment to get my breathing under control. My chest still feels tight, like something is sitting on it. When I finally look at her, my throat closes. “He died,” I whisper. “I dreamt that Jude died.”
Micah’s body tenses instantly. He doesn’t say anything. He just crawls fully into bed with me. Heather does the same, and suddenly I’m trapped between them, held on both sides. And even though I don’t want to, I break. I’ve never cried about anything as much as I’ve cried about Jude throughout my life. He’s the source of my greatest heartbreaks and my greatest joys. Micah wraps his arm around me, pulling me back against his chest until my spine rests against his warm chest. Heather takes my hands, facing me.
“It’s okay,” she says softly, eyes shining. “I love you. I love you so much.”
A small, broken sob slips out of me then.
Micah lowers his chin to my shoulder, his breath warm against my skin. “Shhh,” he murmurs. “Go back to sleep. Close your eyes. You’re safe.”
I do. I let myself sink into the comfort of their bodies, reminding myself that I will never be alone. Heather shifts closer, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe. The words barely exist as they fall from my trembling lips.
“It’s okay,” she whispers back. "Emma, it's alright."
My muscles finally loosen, and the shaking fades. My heartbeat slows, dragging me back from the edge. There’s nothing else for them to say. But they’re here, and I love them for it. Even if I feel weak in this moment.
I wake slowly, cocooned in heat. Micah’s arm is heavy around my waist, my cheek tucked against his chest. I can hear his steady heartbeat. Heather is pressed against my back, one leg draped over mine, her breath warm against my shoulder.
For a moment, I don’t move. I just lie there, letting myself exist inside this. Then I sense movement. I crack my eyes open just in time to see Adela pause in the doorway. She’s still in thin gray sweats and a dusty rose satin tank, hair swept loosely out of her face, wispy bangs soft against her blue eyes. She takes in the scene of me sandwiched between my best friends, all of us tangled together, and smiles.
She catches my eye, lifts her brows in a silent good morning, then turns and heads downstairs. Even though I could lie here all day, the smell of coffee reaches my nostrils. Carefully, I ease out from between Micah and Heather, trying not to wake them. Micah grunts once, arm tightening reflexively before loosening again. Heather murmurs something unintelligible and burrows deeper into the pillow.
I smile at that.
Downstairs, the cabin is bright with morning light. The sun reflects off the river, and the entire place smells like espresso. Adela is already in the kitchen, pulling a mug from the cabinet like she knew I was coming.
“Morning,” she says quietly.
Rafe is on the couch, one ankle crossed over his knee, coffee in hand, scrolling through his phone.
“Morning,” I echo, my voice still rough.
I glance around. “Where are Kieran and Nico?”
Rafe answers without looking up. “Basement bedrooms.”
Adela snorts as she sets the mug down and starts the machine. “They wanted to be as far from us as possible.”
I grin. “Why?”
Rafe finally laughs, lifting his mug to hide it.
Adela doesn’t even hesitate. “My husband and I,” she says sweetly, “have very unique tastes in the bedroom.”
“Often including you screaming and fighting me,” Rafe adds, deadpan.
I freeze. Like, fully short-circuiting.
