I nod once. Not because I fully believe it. Because I know what she means. She’s here, breathing, trying. That counts.
A minute later, she sets the mug down and pulls the blanket tighter around herself. “You don’t have to sit guard duty every second.”
“I know.”
Her mouth twitches, almost a smile. “That didn’t sound convincing.”
“It wasn’t meant to.”
That gets a real one. Small, but real.
Good.
I lean back in the chair, listening to the hinges in the hall settle, the vibration of footsteps below, the shape of the building around us. Nothing off. Nothing wrong.
Still, I stay.
Because a couple of days ago she woke up in the dark with zip ties cutting into her skin, and now every time the floor creaks too suddenly, her shoulders go high and tight before she remembers where she is.
A lock that holds, a light left on, a body in the next room, tea while it’s still warm… safety isn’t theory, it’s built in small, repeatable things.
I know how to build those things.
So I do.
At night, she often dreams loud.
Sometimes she just goes still in her sleep, breath thinning out until I hear it change from the hall and stop what I’m doing without even thinking. Sometimes it’s quieter than that, just the mattress shifting, the faint catch in her throat, the kind of sound most people would sleep through.
I don’t.
The first night back, Finn made a joke about drawing lots for watch shifts until Ryder looked at him, and Finn shut up halfway through the sentence.
We didn’t end up drawing lots.
Ryder takes the balcony and the perimeter when he can’t sit still. Finn takes every errand within five miles and somehow turns coffee runs into recon.
I take the inside, the stairs, the locks, the windows, the spaces close enough to hear her breathe.
Tonight it happens just after three.
I’m at the kitchen table with a half-finished wiring diagram for the rear camera setup to get every blind spot when I hear it. One sharp inhale, like her body came back too fast and left the rest of her behind.
By the time I push her door open, she’s upright in bed, hand at her throat, eyes wide, breathing hard, the air’s refusing to stay put.
The lamp beside her is already on. She’s been sleeping with it that way since we brought her home. Low amber light. Enough to cut the dark before it can become more.
She looks at me, but not all the way. Some part of her still hasn’t caught up enough to know where she is.
I don’t ask what she saw, if it was him, if she wants to talk. Don’t ask for details she shouldn’t have to hand over just to prove she’s hurting.
I cross the room, sit on the edge of the bed, and keep my movements slow enough that nothing startles.
“You’re here,” I say quietly.
Her breathing stutters.
I wait.
