I can see him through the blur of water in my eyes. He's on his knees at the edge, one hand still reaching toward the water like he tried to grab me and couldn't. His face is—I've never seen his face like that. Stripped. Wrecked. The cockiness gone, the performance gone, just Zero underneath, and Zero underneath is terrified.
He sees Atlas has me. He sees Bane beside us. He pulls his hand back. Sits on his heels. Doesn't come in.
He looks away.
He watches the shore and the tree line with the coiled attention of a man keeping guard, and I understand—he's giving me the dignity of falling apart without being watched by the person who put me in the water. Not looking at me. Not because he doesn't care but because the guilt of looking would break something in him he can't afford to break right now.
I love him for that. I love him so much for that I nearly drown again.
"Easy," Atlas murmurs. "Easy, sweetheart. I'm not letting go."
"I know," I manage. Through chattering teeth. Through the panic that's draining out of me the way bathwater drains—slow, clinging, leaving me cold and scraped clean. I can’t shake the memories. "I know you're not."
Bane moves first.
He's out of the water and onto the dock in one motion—hands flat on the boards, hauling himself up, rolling onto his knees. He turns back and reaches down.
"Give him to me."
Atlas lifts me. I don't help. My arms are useless, my legs are useless, I'm shaking so hard I can barely keep my head up. Atlas gets me high enough that Bane's hands find my arms, my ribs, and then Bane pulls—drags me up onto the dock like I weigh nothing, like I'm something he's fished out of the deepend, and I land on the rough boards on my side, coughing, shaking, curling in on myself.
The wood is solid under me. Not water. Not depth. Solid.
Atlas is out of the water a second later. He's on his knees in front of me before I've stopped coughing, soaking wet, his shirt plastered to him, and his hands find my face. Both of them. Palms on my cheeks, fingers in my wet hair, forcing my head up, forcing me to look at him.
"Max. Look at me. Right here."
I'm looking but I'm not seeing. My eyes are open and Atlas is in front of me but Linda is behind my eyes and the water is still in my ears and I can't—
"Max." Firmer. His thumbs press against my cheekbones. "Say my name."
"A—Atlas."
"Good. Say you're okay."
I can't. The words won't come. I'm shaking too hard. My teeth are chattering so violently I bite the inside of my cheek and taste copper.
"Sweetheart. Say it. Tell me you're here."
"I'm—" A breath. Another. His face comes into focus—the dark eyes, the jaw, the wet hair falling across his forehead in a way I've never seen before because Atlas doesn't get undone like this. I find the bonds and hang on tight, letting them bring me back fully to the present. "I'm here. I'm okay. I'm—Atlas, I'm okay."
"Again."
"I'm okay."
"One more time."
"I'm okay."
He exhales. Long. Controlled. The Atlas version of falling apart—one breath, precisely released. His forehead dropsagainst mine. Wet skin against wet skin. His hands stay on my face.
Bane is already gone—down the dock, across the grass, back with the blanket in under a minute. He wraps it around my shoulders from behind, pulling it tight, his chest warm against my back through the soaked fabric. His mouth presses once against my wet temple.
"Okay?" he asks.
"Yeah."
"You sure?"
