Page 77 of Trust

“Because we had to,” I say. “If we warned you, you wouldn’t have lived it. You needed to be in it, to know you could come out the other side.”

Her chin trembles, but she holds the tears back. Arms still locked in place, a fragile shield.

“I almost suffocated,” she says.

“That’s what it was supposed to feel like, and you made it through. You won.”

She looks at me then. Her eyes glisten, shadowed by a trace of bitterness.

“Please leave me alone for a while.”

I shake my head. “No.”

She opens her mouth, but I speak first.

“You want to be alone, so no one sees you shatter.” My voice loses its edge. “You don’t have to hide that here. Not with us.”

Her arms relax slightly.

I approach her like I would an injured kitten, every step cautious to keep it from running.

“You don’t have to do this part alone, Sara.” I reach for her hand. Her cold fingers weakly pull back at first, an automatic, defensive reaction. Her body is stiff, but the resistance fades quickly, and she breaks.

A jagged sob tears from her. I draw her close, guiding her head to my chest. My fingers drift through her hair in a steady rhythm, easing the shudder of her shoulders, the tremor in each exhale. No words pass between us. I let her cry, let her break.

It takes a long time before she relaxes.

Her lashes still tremble as I look down, a shimmer of tears clinging to them. Then the truth sinks in, how long I’ve wanted her. Since the second she stumbled out of the trees, all defiance and fire.

But this moment isn’t mine.

She doesn’t need desire. She needs presence and care. Someone who won’t ask for anything in return.

“I’ll run you a bath,” I say.

Although letting her go feels impossible, I turn to the tub and start filling it. After adding soap, I swirl the water until the foam rises.

When I look back at her, she’s standing there with distant eyes. I step in front of her and reach for the edge of her hoodie. “Arms up,” I murmur.”

She blinks, then lifts her arms slowly, and I’m careful not to turn this into something it isn’t meant to be. She stands in her tank top and leggings, and I retreat a pace, giving her space.

The water’s ready. Steam curls upward, hazing the outlines of the room.

She walks to the tub, then glances over her shoulder.

“Turn around? We’re not... there yet,” she says, like she owes me an explanation.

She trusts me enough to stay but not enough to see. I can live with that.

“Of course,” I say, voice rough.

I turn my back. Behind me, fabric rustles, clothing being set aside. Then the faint slosh of water as she slips in. She lets out a sigh, and the tightness leaks right out of her frame.

A barely audible ‘okay’ signals I can face her again.

She’s curled in on herself, knees hugged to her chest, arms wrapped around them.

Kneeling beside the tub, I show her the shampoo bottle. “Can I...?”