Page 52 of Trust

I could let her take—

No.

I shove that idea straight back where it came from. It crosses a line I’m not willing to step over. Not now. Not ever.

I carry her to her room instead and ease her down. She barely stirs, rolls onto the pillow, sinking into it. I pull the blanket over her and straighten up. For a moment, I stand there, watching her breathe. Then I step back and grab the door. I don’t lock it. Hell, I don’t even close it all the way and get to bed myself.

Tomorrow’s going to hurt.

TRAINING

Sara

Up. Let’s go.” Chris firm voice wakes me early again.

My whole body protests before I even open my eyes, staging a full rebellion with every muscle screaming as though I’ve been dropped from a roof. The old Sara would’ve been crushed by yesterday’s training. But not this version. Not anymore.

Still, determination doesn’t make movement easier. Getting up isn’t really the right word. I fold forward in slow motion and end up hunched on the edge of the mattress while he’s standing there, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed.

“You’re sore,” he states.

I don’t bother answering. He can see it all over me and watches for a second longer, then disappears downstairs. I make it to the bathroom, wincing with every step. As I wash my face, an uneasy thought nags at me. How did I get into bed? I remember the couch. The fire. Warmth covering my legs and shoulders. I remember fighting the heaviness dragging my eyelids down, trying to watch TV. I don’t remember the stairs or the bed.

Weird. I shake it off, but the thought lingers, an itch I can’t quite scratch.

It’s colder today. Outside greets me with a refreshing chill. He starts us with stretches.

Chris patiently talks me through them. He moves with the confidence of someone who knows what he’s doing. Somehow, that helps. I stop pushing so hard. Start breathing easier.

We go for another run, or rather a limp. A snail-paced jog around the lake path we already know. It’s even more grueling today, but also more familiar. I keep my head down, eyes on the trail, trying to put one foot in front of the other. Chris runs beside me, letting me pick my pace.

“Keep going,” he says when I start to lag behind. “That’s what matters. Doesn’t have to be fast. Just don’t quit.”

It sounds more like life advice than training instructions.

I make it to breakfast, barely, but I push through. We eat earlier than yesterday. Chris must sense I need it. We don’t talk much, but that’s okay. Before we continue working out, he fixes me a drink with a weird pink tint.

“Electrolytes,” he says. “You’ll need ’em.”

I gulp it down without thinking.

◆◆◆

At the end of the day, I’m nothing but bruises. Every tiny motion is torture.

Chris doesn’t say anything, but I catch the way his eyes linger on how I move, the way I lower myself into the chair at the kitchen table as if I might splinter.

“You’re wrecked,” he says finally, a note between sympathy and amusement in his voice.

“I’m all right,” I lie, overthinking my internal pep talk about pain not defining me. Right now, it may have taken over my whole personality.

He arches a brow. “Come on.”

I sigh and sink deeper into the chair. “Okay, I’m dying.”

He smirks, clearly pleased with my honesty, and reaches for a glass. “More electrolytes first, then food. After that, I’m drawing you a hot bath.”

I blink, momentarily speechless. Of all the things I was prepared for him to say, that was not on my bingo card for tonight.