I was glad she was out of her room.
I could see her.
Stupid, maybe, but I didn’t care.
I knew she needed her space, and I needed to handle her carefully, but damn if that wasn’t hard as fuck.When I had heard her crying last night, it had taken everything in me to not rip the door off the hinges and tell her it was all going to be okay.
I set my coffee on the table and turned fully toward her.
“Morning,” I said.
She snorted softly.“Is it?”
“Technically,” I said.
It pulled the corner of her mouth up for half a heartbeat.
That felt like a win.
Anchor straightened and shifted into Prez mode.
“Shay,” he said.“How are you feeling?”
She stared at him like he’d asked her if she enjoyed being run over by a truck.“Tired.Confused.Terrified,” she said.“Hungry.Is ‘emotionally wrecked’ a feeling or a diagnosis?”
“Depends who you ask,” I muttered.
Her eyes flicked to me again, and this time they held for a beat longer.“You ever going to sit down?”she asked.
“No.”
Her brows lifted.“Why?”
“If you’re up, I’m up,” I said.
“That mean you slept for the couple hours I did?”she asked.
“Pretty sure I don’t have to answer that,” I answered.
Anchor rubbed his mouth, like he was hiding a smile he didn’t want showing up this morning of all mornings.
“Why am I here?”she asked suddenly.“Really.”
There it was.
The question that had been hanging between us since I walked her up to that room last night and told her it was “safer here.”
Anchor motioned to the table.“You want coffee?”
“I want answers.”
He nodded.“That’s fair.But you’re getting coffee too.”
He poured her some anyway, set the mug at the edge of the table, and leaned his hip against it.
She didn’t move closer.
She stayed halfway between the back hallway and the common room rug, as if distance and neutral ground were the only things keeping her upright.
