Then Emma.
She sat in a chair pulled up to the bed, her body angled toward him. One leg tucked under her, the other foot barely touching the floor. She wore comfortable-looking yoga pants and a rumpled, oversized shirt that looked suspiciously like one of his. Her dark hair was drawn back in a messy knot at the base of her neck, strands escaping to frame her face.
Her exhaustion was evident. Pale skin beneath her tan, shadows under her brown eyes—both spoke of a long night without sleep.
She was watching him. Alert despite the fatigue. Waiting.
Their eyes met.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty. It was full of everything that had happened on the cliff top, everything said and unsaid between them for weeks.
“Hey,” Emma said. “Welcome back.”
Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper. He heard the tightness in it, the emotion she’d been holding back for however many hours he’d been unconscious.
Zach tried to sit up. His body protested—muscles stiff, movements slower than they should be. He pushed through it, needing to be upright, needing to be?—
“Don’t.”
Emma was there, one hand on his shoulder, steadying him but also restraining him. Her touch was gentle but firm. The same presence she’d had on the cliff when she’d kept him conscious through sheer force of will.
“You need to rest,” she said.
“I’m fine.”
“You were dying last night.”
“I wasn’t—” he stopped. Reconsidered his default response: deflect, minimize, move on. He’d been doing it his entire adult life. “Okay. Maybe I was.”
Something shifted in her expression. Not quite a smile, but close. “Progress.”
Zach studied her, cataloging details with the precision he’d use on a threat assessment. But this wasn’t about danger. This was abouther.
Exhaustion weighed on her shoulders. The tension in her jaw said she’d been clenching it. Her hand rested on his shoulder, like she needed the physical contact to confirm he was awake, alive.
She’d stayed. Through whatever happened after the cliff, through the night, through his recovery. She stayed. Watching over him.
Something shifted inside him. His walls lost their foundation.
He cleared his throat. “Status report,” he said, voice rough with disuse.
Emma’s eyebrows rose. “Really? That’s your first question?”
“I need to know what happened. I need to know everyone is safe.” He didn’t say more. She would understand.
She let out a slow breath, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she settled back into her chair, her hand sliding from his shoulder. The absence of her touch hit like a physical loss.
“Of course you do. Everyone’s fine,” she said. “Nick and David got to the cliff about ten minutes after—after you went down. They helped me get you back here.” She paused. “You probably don’t remember that part.”
He didn’t. His memories of the aftermath were fragmented, disconnected. Pain. Movement. Emma’s voice cutting through the darkness.
“Marcus?” he asked, though part of him already knew.
“Gone.” Emma’s tone was steady, matter-of-fact. “Over the cliff. The storm, the rocks, the fall…” She shook her head. “No one could have survived, Zach.”
Presumed dead.That’s what they always said. Until you had a body, until you had confirmation, the threat remained. But the fall, the conditions, the ocean?—
Marcus was gone.
