It detonates.
I cross the distance before I realize I’ve moved.
I drop to my knees in front of her.
“I’m here,” I choke. “I’m here, baby. I’m here.”
She hesitates one more second—then she launches forward.
And when she crashes into me, it’s not gentle.
It’s desperate.
She clings to me like she’s not sure if this is real.
I fold around her.
And I’m crying so hard I can’t breathe.
“Ivy,” I choke. “My baby.”
My hands shake as I touch her hair, her face, her back—like I need to make sure she’s real.
“Are you okay?” I say, over and over. “Are you hurt? Did she hurt you? Are you okay?”
She nods quickly. “I’m okay. She didn’t hurt me.” She hesitates, then adds, quietly, “She was just… taking care of me. She was my new mommy.”
The words stab straight through me.
But I don’t correct her. Not now. Not like this. I just pull her closer and bury my face in her hair.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re safe.”
She nods again.
Sirens. Radios. Voices.
Moments later, paramedics kneel beside us.
They check her vitals. Look her over. Shine a light in her eyes.
As they work, I finally lift my head.
And that’s when I see him.
Across the driveway, still sitting in his car, is the man who refused to let this die. He hasn’t gotten out. He doesn’t need to.
Taylor Pierce.
He’s watching us, one hand resting on the steering wheel. When our eyes meet, he doesn’t smile big or celebrate. He just looks… relieved. Proud. Like a man who stayed in the fight until the very last second. We hold each other’s gaze for a long moment. He gives me a single nod.
I nod back.
Nothing needs to be said.
“She needs to go to the hospital,” one of the paramedics says gently.
I nod immediately. “I’m going with her.”
