The one that lurks just beneath the surface, waiting for me to close my eyes. That world is cold and dark. It smells like damp earth and unwashed skin, filled with the distant thud of footsteps in a hallway and the phantom grip of rough hands bruising my arms. I wake up from those memories more often than I want to admit, my chest locking up, breath coming too fast—until I see Hopper. Until he touches me and grounds me, reminding me that I’m with him, safe.
The doctor explains it’s normal. PTSD. A wound just as real as the ones on my skin, something I’ll need to work through with a therapist. Something that won’t just fade with time.
I make a note to look for a therapist as soon as I’m out so I can get help. I know how important it is to focus on my mental health.
Hopper never leaves my side. He sits in that awful plastic chair for hours, his broad frame hunched forward, his fingers laced through mine like he’s holding on just in case. Like he’s afraid that if he lets go, I’ll slip away all over again.
I don’t think he understands how much I need that. How much I need him.
Atlas brings Maddie to visit often. She barrels into the room like a burst of light, filling the space with giggles and warm little hands pressing against my cheeks. I swear she has Atlas wrapped around her tiny finger, though he and Ledger are apparently locked in some kind of battle for the title of Best Uncle. Good luck to them. If they’re not careful, she’s going to play them both like a damn fiddle.
Grandma doesn’t find out about any of this—the kidnapping, the hospital, all of it—until she gets back from her trip, and I have Atlas to thank for that. He saw the danger coming before the rest of us did, and while I was busy trying to piece together why these men wanted me, he made sure she was far away from the fallout.
It’s a thought that unsettles me in ways I don’t have words for. If she had been home . . .
I don’t let myself finish that thought. It’s pointless to chase the what-ifs. The reality is bad enough.
The man who took me said I ruined his life when I escaped three years ago. That coming back made it worse. He had to prove to his boss that he could fix his mistake.
But I don’t even know what that mistake was. I never saw him before that night—not clearly. I never knew his name. And yet, somehow, I destroyed everything for him.
I wish I could say I’m done being afraid.
But I know that’s a lie.
He’s dead. His body is rotting in the dirt. But the fear he left behind hasn’t gone with him. It lingers in the quiet moments—when the hospital room is too silent, when Maddie curls up in my lap, when Hopper’s fingers skim over my bruised skin, slow and careful, like he’s trying to erase the pain with his touch.
But I’m here.
I survived.
That has to count for something.
The first morning back in Hopper’s house, I wake up to the scent of coffee and the quiet murmur of voices downstairs. For a moment, I let myself lie there, letting the warmth of the blankets seep into my aching limbs. The pain isn’t as intense as before—just a dull ache woven through my muscles, a lingering trace of what happened. The bruises will fade. The wounds will heal.
I shift, wincing as a slow ache ripples through my body, but it’s nothing compared to waking up in that hospital bed, surrounded by the sterile scent of antiseptic and the cold hum of fluorescent lights.
Downstairs, floorboards creak beneath familiar footsteps, followed by a burst of laughter—Maddie’s, bright and unburdened, like nothing in her world has changed.
I close my eyes for a second, exhaling slowly.
I survived.
I keep repeating it, willing the words to settle into my bones.
Now I just have to figure out how to live again.
But it’s easier this time—easier knowing I have a family. Grandma. Hopper. Maddie. And maybe even the rest of the Timberbridge brothers.
I shift again, drawing in a slow breath, and before I can process anything else, the door creaks open.
Hopper steps inside, his hair damp from a shower, his shirt slightly wrinkled like he’s been up for hours.
“Morning, baby.”
I blink up at him, my throat dry from sleep. “You’re back from the barn already?”
He nods, crossing the room, his body warm as he sits on the edge of the bed. His fingers brush through my hair, slow and lazy, like he’s memorizing the feel of it.
