I lay back, staring at the ceiling, one arm behind my head, the other braced over my chest, as if pressure could hold it together.
It didn’t work, never did.
My phone sat within reach, screen dark, yet I kept glancing at it anyway. Not because I expected something, but because I didn’t trust the stillness.
That kind of silence had never meant nothing.
Not after the military. Not after losing Elena.
Silence meant waiting.
Silence meant something hadn’t hit yet.
I dragged a hand down my face, exhaling slowly, trying to calm myself, but my body didn’t follow. Instead, my cheststayed tight, breath shallow, as if I couldn’t pull in enough air. My shoulders stayed locked, muscles coiled, bracing for impact, even as my mind told me it was over.
It didn’t matter that I was in my own bed or that everything was technically fine. My body didn’t care about logic. I was stuck in fight-or-flight, remembering the unanswered calls, the way her phone cut straight to dead air, and the gap when I didn’t know where she was or if she was okay. That was all it took.
And it didn’t matter that Cami had Harper. Didn’t matter that Dani had handled everything exactly how she should have. I just knew what it felt like to lose someone in a moment you didn’t see coming. One missed call. One second too late. Everything changes.
My jaw clenched, something jagged scraping up in my lungs.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed before I could think about it too much, moving on self-preservation more than anything else.
I didn’t slow down, didn’t let myself dwell on it.
I just turned the shower on all the way cold.
The water hit fast, stealing my breath and forcing everything else out. My chest tightened hard before it finally let go, dragging in a full inhale whether I was ready or not.
I braced my hands on the tile, head dropping forward as water ran over my neck and spine, shocking my system out of the spiral it had locked into.
In the military, you learn quickly that when your body flips that switch, you don’t sit in it.
You override it. Cold water. Breath control. Focus on what’s real, what’s right in front of you: not the memory, not the what-ifs. The here and now.
I stayed in the shower longer than necessary, letting the cold strip away tension and forcing my breathing to slow and even out.
In.
Hold.
Out.
Again.
By the time I shut off the water, the edge had dulled. It wasn’t gone, it never really went away, but it wasn’t driving anymore.
I grabbed a towel, ran it over my face, and forced myself back into something like control instead of reaction.
She was okay, that was all that mattered.
I stepped back into the bedroom, the air warmer now, quieter in a way that didn’t feel as sharp. My phone buzzed against the nightstand the second I reached for it.
Dani:We’re home. Harper’s asleep.
Dani:I’m sorry for today.
I stared at the message, feeling something shift. For a moment, the tension eased—but this time, it wasn’t tightness I felt.
