"No. She'sperforminglike she’s letting me in. There's a difference." I run a hand through my hair, frustrated. "She kisses me and it feels desperate. She touches me and it feels like she's trying to prove something. But when I look in her eyes, she's not there. She's somewhere else, somewhere dark, and she won't tell me where."
Xavier absorbs this, processing. "Keep trying. Don't give up on her."
"I won't," I promise. "Now take your meds and sleep. You look like death."
"Charming as always," he mutters, but he's already reaching for the medication bag.
I watch him dry-swallow two pills, then stand. "I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything. Just yell."
"Zay?" He catches my wrist. "Thanks. For everything."
"That's what brothers do," I reply, squeezing his hand once before leaving.
The hallway feels longer on the way back. I can hear Valentina in the kitchen—cabinet doors, the refrigerator opening and closing, water running. Normal sounds that should be comforting but somehow aren't.
I find her standing at the stove, staring at a pot of water that isn't boiling yet. She's got vegetables spread across the counter—carrots, celery, onions—and a cutting board, but nothing's been cut. She's just standing there, hands gripping the edge of the counter, shoulders rigid.
"Val?"
She doesn't turn around. "Is he okay?"
"He's in bed. Took his meds. He'll probably sleep for a few hours." I move closer, leaning against the counter beside her. "What are you making?"
"Soup. Chicken noodle. He should eat something warm, something easy on his stomach after all those hospital meals." Her voice is flat, mechanical. "I need to cut the vegetables. And get the chicken from the fridge. And find a stock pot. Do we have a stock pot?"
"Val."
"And noodles. We need noodles. Did I buy noodles? I can't remember if I?—"
"Valentina." I turn her to face me, hands gentle on her shoulders. She won't meet my eyes. "Breathe."
"I am breathing."
"No, you're spiraling." I duck my head, trying to catch her gaze. "Look at me."
She does, finally, and her eyes are wild. Panicked. Like a trapped animal looking for an exit.
"He's okay," I tell her firmly. "He's home. He's safe. You did everything right."
"I need to make soup," she insists, trying to turn back to the stove.
I don't let her. "The soup can wait five minutes."
"But—"
"Five minutes," I repeat. "Just stand here with me. Breathe. Be present."
She's shaking. I can feel it through her shoulders, fine tremors that won't stop. "I can't."
"Yes, you can."
"No, I—" Her voice cracks. "If I stop moving, if I stop doing things, I'll?—"
"What?" I press gently. "What will happen?"
She shakes her head violently, pulling away from my hands. "Nothing. It's nothing. I just need to—" She reaches for the cutting board, grabs a knife with trembling fingers.
"Val, put the knife down."
