The door opened slowly, and Walker stepped inside the small powder room. He took one look at me crumpled on the floor in my torn dress and immediately knelt beside me.
"Hey, hey," he murmured, his voice infinitely gentle. "It's okay. You're okay."
I couldn't stop crying, couldn't catch my breath. Everything felt too big, too scary. The dress was ruined, and I couldn't even manage to get changed by myself.
"I can't," I sobbed, clutching the clean clothes to my chest. "I can't do it. Everything hurts and my hands won't stop shaking and—"
"Breathe, sweetheart," Walker said, settling more comfortably on the floor beside me. "Just breathe with me. In and out."
He demonstrated, taking slow, deep breaths until I found myself matching his rhythm without thinking about it. Gradually, my sobs quieted to hiccups.
"Better?" he asked.
I nodded, wiping my nose with the back of my hand like a little kid.
"Okay. Let me help you, all right? Nothing inappropriate, I promise. Just helping you get into clean clothes."
I looked up at him through my tears. His expression was so kind, so patient, that I felt safe enough to nod again.
Walker helped me stand, then held my hand for balance while I slipped out of the torn dress. His movements were clinical, respectful—like he was a medic helping an injured soldier. When I struggled with the t-shirt, my hands still shaking, he helped guide my arms through the sleeves. The pajama pants required rolling up the legs and cinching the waistband tight, but they stayed up.
"There," he said softly, smoothing the shirt down. "Much better."
I caught sight of myself in the mirror and almost started crying again. The shirt hung on me like a tent, the bruise on my cheek was already turning purple, and my face was swollen. I looked pathetic.
"I look awful," I whispered.
"You look brave my little warrior," Walker corrected, meeting my eyes in the mirror. "And safe. That's what matters."
He scooped up Mr. Snuggles from the counter and handed him to me, then guided me back to the living room where Dr. Atkins was waiting. The rest of the examination was quick, and he gave me an ice pack for my cheek.
"She needs rest and to be monitored tonight," he told Walker as he packed up his bag. "Wake her every few hours to check for signs of head trauma, but she should be fine by morning."
After Dr. Atkins left, Walker turned to me where I sat curled up on his couch, clutching Mr. Snuggles.
"You should get some sleep," he said gently. "I'll show you to the guest room."
But as soon as he said it, panic fluttered in my chest. The thought of being alone in a dark room, even in Walker's safe house, made my breathing quicken.
"I don't want to be alone," I whispered, ashamed of how small my voice sounded. "What if—"
"Hey," Walker interrupted softly, crouching down in front of me again. "It's okay. You don't have to be alone."
He helped me to my feet, his hand steady at my elbow as he led me down a short hallway. The bedroom was simply furnished—a queen-sized bed with navy blue sheets, a dresser, and a bedside table with a lamp that cast warm light across the room.
I stood uncertainly in the doorway, hugging Mr. Snuggles tighter. Walker seemed to understand my hesitation without me having to explain.
"Would it help if I stayed?" he asked quietly. "I could sit in the chair, or—"
I nodded eagerly, wishing I had the courage to ask him to get in bed with me.
He pulled back the covers for me, and I climbed into bed still wearing his oversized clothes. The sheets smelled clean and masculine, like his jacket had. Walker disappeared for a moment, returning with a glass of water and some pain relievers which I took obediently.
"Thank you," I whispered into the darkness after he'd turned off the lamp. "For everything."
"You don't need to thank me, Lottie," he replied, low and gentle. "Just sleep. I'll be right here."
For the first time in hours, my body began to relax. The pain medication was starting to work, and exhaustion pulled at my eyelids.
