Page 10 of Canvas’ Muse

"Stay still or you'll tear my stitches." Saint looks at Ranger. "Check her."

Ranger is beside me in seconds, crouching down. His voice is surprisingly gentle. "You're crashing. Adrenaline dump. Totally normal."

"I know what it is." My teeth are chattering. "I'm a nurse. I know. I just…"

"You did good." He puts a hand on my shoulder, steady and grounding. "You kept him alive. That's what matters."

I nod, but I can't stop shaking. Can't stop seeing Davis throw himself over me, can't stop hearing the gunshots, can't stop feeling his blood warm and wet under my hands.

"Put your head between your knees," Ranger instructs. "Breathe slowly. In through your nose, out through your mouth."

I follow his instructions, my nursing training fighting with my body's response. Of course I know what's happening. The crash after sustained high stress, the body's way of processing trauma, but knowing doesn't make it stop.

"Eden." Davis's voice cuts through the fog. "Look at me."

I lift my head. He's still propped against the tattoo chair, Saint working on his shoulder, but his dark eyes are locked on mine.

"You're okay," he says firmly. "You're safe. It's over."

"You got shot."

"I've been shot before. I'll heal." His voice is steady despite the pain he must be in. "You saved my life. You did everything right. Now let yourself crash. It's okay."

The permission breaks something in me. The tears come all at once, hot and fast and completely beyond my control. I press my face against my knees, trying to muffle the sobs that are tearing out of my chest.

This isn't me. I don't fall apart. I'm the one who holds it together in crisis, who keeps everyone else calm, who compartmentalizes and processes later.

But later is now, and I can't stop shaking.

Ranger doesn't leave my side. He keeps one hand on my shoulder, grounding me, while he talks in a low, calm voice about breathing, about letting it out, about how this is healthy and exactly what I need to do.

Saint keeps working on Davis, his hands never faltering despite the chaos.

And Davis keeps his eyes on me the entire time, like he can hold me together through sheer force of will.

Eventually, the shaking slows. The tears stop. My breathing evens out. I'm exhausted. Completely wrung out. My body feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.

"Better?" Ranger asks.

"Yeah." My voice is hoarse. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize. You just lived through a shooting. You're allowed to fall apart a little." He stands, offering me a hand. "Can you stand?"

I let him pull me up, testing my legs. They hold, barely. "I'm okay."

"You're not okay." Davis is watching me with something that looks like concern mixed with frustration. "You need to get out of here. Go home. Let us handle this."

"And let you bleed out the next time someone decides to shoot up your studio?" I shake my head, steadier now. "I don't think so."

"There won't be a next time. Not here." Saint finishes the last stitch and starts bandaging the wound properly. "He's coming to the clubhouse. Full lockdown until we sort this out."

"Then I'm coming too." The words are out before I can stop them.

All three men stare at me.

"Absolutely not," Davis says.

"You can't—" Ranger starts.