I can’t lose her.
The thought hits hard enough to strip everything else away—the anger, the distance, all of it.
I can’t lose her.
“Charlotte…” My voice breaks, and I don’t care. “I can’t do this without you. I love you.”
The words are out before I can stop them.
They hang there, raw and final.
Her eyes flutter once, but if she hears me, there’s no sign.
I pull her closer, holding her like I can keep her here by force.
“You don’t get to do this,” I say against her hair, panic rising sharper now. “You don’t get to leave me.”
Her breathing turns shallow again.
Too shallow.
Cold fear settles in.
I tighten my grip and look down at her face, like I can pull her back just by refusing to let go.
“Charlotte.” My voice isn’t steady anymore. “Stay with me.”
Nothing.
And for the first time since Ryan died, I understand what real fear feels like.
The first thingI notice is her hand. It twitches. Just a slight curl of her fingers against the mat—but after days of stillness, it’s enough to make me freeze.
For a second, I think I imagined it.
I’ve been sitting here too long, watching her chest rise and fall, listening to every uneven breath like it might stop at any moment. Sleep comes in short bursts, never deep enough to last before something drags me back up.
So when her hand shifts again, I lean forward, my focus snapping to her face.
“Charlotte?”
No answer.
Her leg is stretched out in front of her, wrapped in the bandage I changed this morning. The swelling has gone down some, the angry red fading into darker bruising along her ankle and calf. I’ve kept the wound clean, rinsing it again and again until the heat finally eased.
The fever broke yesterday, but she didn’t wake up.
Her fingers move again.
Then her lashes flutter.
My chest tightens so sharply I forget to breathe.
I lean closer, brushing damp hair back from her forehead before pressing two fingers lightly to her neck.
There.
A pulse.
