But I don't call them.
I don't open the door.
I breathe. I count. I press my face into the cool pillow and remember Mira's voice.
Your body knows what to do. You don't have to help it.
I allow myself to feel it. All of it. The ache, the frustration, the way my body demands something I'm not giving it.
This will pass.
I'm safe.
I chose this.
Through the door, I hear movement. A chair scraping. Low voices.
Calder: "How much longer?"
Julian: "Heat duration averages eighteen to twenty-four hours. She's past the halfway point."
Tyler: "She's incredible."
A pause.
Then Calder again, so quiet I almost miss it: "Yes. She is."
Something warm blooms in my chest, not heat, something else entirely.
The waves begin to lengthen.
Slowly, the intensity decreases. The heat doesn't vanish, but it recedes. The ache dulls. My breathing steadies.
I drink more water. Eat a few crackers. Press a cool cloth to my face and neck.
Exhaustion settles in, bone-deep, but satisfied. Like I've run a marathon and crossed the finish line intact.
I lie back on the bed, clean sheets cool against my skin.
And I sleep.
I wake to morning light.
Soft. Pale. Filtering through the curtains in gentle stripes.
For a moment, I don't remember where I am. Then it comes back: the suite, the heat, the choice.
I sit up slowly.
My body aches, muscles sore, skin tender. But the heat is gone. Faded to nothing, leaving only the ghost of warmth behind.
On the chair beside the bed, my clothes are folded neatly, washed and returned. A pitcher of cold water with lemon sits on the table. Three notes rest on the nightstand, folded and labeled.
I reach for them with shaking hands.
Calder's note:
You were right. You didn't need us inside. But we needed to be close.
