I guide Sedona to the house. She moves like she’s underwater.
When we get inside, the soft lamp glow in the living room wraps around us. The air smells faintly of lavender detergent and the dried flowers she keeps above the window.
Usually, her home feels warm, full of life, but now it feels fragile, like even breathing wrong might break it.
“You want anything?” I ask her gently. “Something to drink? Something to eat?”
She shakes her head and murmurs, “No. I just want to go to bed.”
But instead of heading upstairs, she walks straight to the sofa and lies down with her back toward me. She pulls her knees in, one arm tucked beneath her head. Her shoulders rise and fall with shallow breaths.
She looks small. She has been strong for days, stronger than anyone should have to be, and now she is fading right in front of me.
I step outside, where Tex and Seth are waiting at the foot of the driveway.
“Take the truck home,” I tell them quietly. “I’m staying.”
Seth’s face softens. Tex studies me for a long moment before nodding. “We’ll see you in the morning,” he says. “Call if you need anything.”
I watch them drive away before I go back inside. She hasn’t moved. The sight pulls something sharp inside my chest.
“Sweetheart,” I say as I crouch beside the sofa. “Let’s go upstairs. You’ll sleep better in your bed.”
She turns her face toward me, eyes red and unfocused. She nods, but when she pushes herself upright, she gets only a few steps before her legs give a little.
I don’t let her fall. I slide an arm beneath her and scoop her up without thinking. She rests her head against my shoulder, her breath warm through the collar of my shirt.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper as I carry her upstairs.
Her room smells like her—honeysuckle and something warm and familiar that settles under my ribs and stays there. I set her down on the edge of the bed and shrug out of my jacket.
The thing feels like a damn anchor around my shoulders, and I let it slide onto the chair in the corner. My shirt sticks to me, damp from the long drive, and I unbutton it, tossing it on top of the jacket.
She watches me with dazed eyes. “What’re you doing?”
“I want you to get a warm shower,” I tell her gently. “Then I’ll make you a sandwich, and we’ll sleep.”
She nods, her gaze fixed on my chest like she’s too tired to look anywhere else.
I help her stand. My movements are slow, careful, nothing like the way I touch her when we’re tangled up in each other.
I lift the hem of her dress and slide it over her head. She doesn’t resist; she just lets her arms fall, her body loose with exhaustion.
I tie her hair up into a ponytail so it doesn’t get wet. Then I strip down and take her hand, guiding her to the small bathroom.
The shower steam curls around us the moment I turn the water on. I hold her hand as she steps inside.
I wash her shoulders, her arms, her back with slow, soothing strokes, letting the warm water run down both our skin. She leans against me, her breath trembling, her fingers clutching my forearm.
When we finish, I wrap her in a towel and dry her off like she’s something breakable. Then I dry myself quickly. I pull a clean T-shirt over her head, easing her arms through, smoothing the hem down her thighs.
She looks so young like this, so tired, so heartbreakingly vulnerable.
I lay her on the bed and pull the covers up.
I grab my boxers and slide them into place. “I’ll make you a sandwich,” I say softly.
Her hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. “Don’t leave.”
