Everything you need, nothing you chose.
Her gaze drifted to the hook on the wall.
Her Jackson County Sheriff’s Office jacket hung there, navy catching the changing light.
Beside it, her jeans and sweater hung pressed on a wooden hanger, shoulders squared by someone else’s hands.
A small rod fixed near the corner held two items more: a simple bra looped by its strap, and a pair of folded cotton panties.
For a heartbeat, her mind refused to understand what she was seeing. They were just shapes. Fabric. Familiar.
Then understanding caught up.
They’re not on me because someone took them off.
Heat slammed through her chest, then dropped out of her like the floor had given way.
Those were hers—fresh from yesterday’s shower, pulled on in her own bathroom, in a life where she chose who saw her that way.
Now they’d been taken off her.
Handled.
Hung.
A raw, animal sound tore out of her before she could stop it—too loud in the pretty room, wrong in a place with slipcovers and curated bookshelves.
Her skin shrank on her bones.
Every inch of her suddenly felt exposed, even under the duvet. She could feel hands that weren’t there—ghost pressure at her ribs, her hips, the small of her back.
Her fingers dove under the duvet, desperate.
Flannel—pajama pants tied with a drawstring, a long-sleeved top, thick socks hugging her calves.
Not a hospital gown.
Not bare.
Relief flashed—sharp, almost painful—then died in the same breath, because the only way she got into these was the same way she’d gotten out of the others.
Someone changed me.
Not a nurse with a clipboard. Not a tech in a trauma bay.
Someone who’d carried her limp, peeled her out of every layer she’d chosen that morning, and put new ones on.
Her chest tightened so hard her fingers tingled.
“All right,” she said to the ceiling, her voice a thread. “Okay, Parker. Move.”
She pushed the duvet aside and set her feet on the rug. The wool cushioned the tremble in her legs.
She crossed to the hook.
Jacket, jeans, sweater. Bra and panties. All waiting, like someone had laid out her uniform.
She grabbed the jacket on pure instinct. Her hand went to her right hip—automatic.
