And that bothered me more than anything else happening right now—which, given the state of the world, was saying something.
“Finn?”
Fiona’s voice pulled me back. I blinked, realizing I’d been standing motionless with a can of beans, staring at the back of Libby’s head.
“Yeah.”
“You guys need to sleep,” Fiona said, glancing at Lily. “We’ll take watch.”
Lily nodded once. “We’ve got it.”
I held Fiona’s gaze for a moment, assessing her. Alert. Scared but functional.
“If anything changes—sound, movement—wake me. Don’t wait until you’re sure.”
“We will.”
A short nod. I grabbed my pack and turned towards the stairs.
Libby had already started up.
Quiet. Withdrawn. Each step slow and deliberate, one hand trailing the wall for balance. She didn’t speak. Didn’t turn around. Didn’t look at me as she climbed. I knew she was still reeling from the alley attack.
* * *
Upstairs, it was dim. The last gray light of the storm filtered through gaps in the boarded windows, casting everything in muted shadow. The room we’d designated for sleeping occupied the corner of the second floor.
She moved to her corner without a word, lowered herself onto the blankets, pulled her knees up, and turned her back to the room.
I took my spot on the opposite side, far enough to respect the boundary she’d just established, close enough to reach her in under two seconds if the door came open.
I lay back. The exhaustion was physical—a pressure behind my eyes, a slow dissolution of muscle and intention, the particular heaviness of a body that had been running on threat response for too long and had finally run out of threats torespondto. My shoulder ached. My forearm. The hip that had taken the debris in the tunnel. My hands had not stopped throbbing since I’d pried that rebar from the collapsed wall. Sleep came to me. I went. Almost. Then I heard it.
Soft. Muffled.
My eyes opened.
I pushed up on my elbows and looked across the room.
She lay curled tight, back still to me, but her shoulders shook. Small tremors she couldn’t suppress no matter how hard she pressed her face into the pillow. One hand covered her mouth—I could see its shape in the dim light, fingers clamped across her lips, containing the sound, keeping it inside where she thought no one would find it.
I’d watched her hold it together through all of it. And now, in the dark, where she thought no one was looking—this. I became aware of my own breathing, the silence, the quiet sounds she was working so hard to contain.
I didn’t think about it.
Didn’t weigh the implications. Didn’t consult the part of my brain that maintained professional distance.
I moved.
Crossed the space. Lowered myself beside her. One breath, the decision was already made, had been made somewhere back in the dark before I’d even sat up—just to feel the full weight of it. What I was about to do. What it would cost me. What I already knew I would not take back.
Then I lay down behind her and wrapped my arm around her.
She went rigid. A sharp inhale caught and held in her throat—I could hear it stop, suspended, her entire body bracing for something she hadn’t expected.
“Shhh,” I said. Low. Close. My mouth near the back of her head. “You’re safe.”
Two seconds.
