Page 42 of Collateral Damage
"Of course. We'll keep monitoring her, but she's comfortable and not in any pain."
I end the call and just sit there, phone in my hand, trying not to cry.
"Ava?"
Silas's voice is gentle.
I look up at him, and the relief breaks through—but with it comes the regret, sharp and bitter. The guilt that I wasn't there to see her lucid moment. Wasn't there to hear her voice when it was really her.
She recognized someone. And it wasn’t me.
"She's okay," I manage. "No breaks. And she—" My voice cracks. "She was lucid for a while."
"That's good news," Silas says carefully.
"It is." I nod, but tears are already blurring my vision. "It's wonderful news. Except I wasn't there. I wasn't there to see it, to talk to her while she was still... herself."
The words tumble out before I can stop them.
"Those moments are so rare now. Sometimes weeks go by where she doesn't know who I am, and today—today she was there, really there, and I missed it because I'm hiding in the mountains."
My hands are shaking. "I should have been there. I should have?—"
I don't even finish the sentence. Silas is already moving, a blur of dark fabric and sudden intent. He hesitates for a heartbeat—a pulsing fraction of a second—and then he’s hauling me into him.
I don't just "let" him. I collapse. My knees turn to water, and I anchor myself to the rough cotton of his shirt, my fingers clawing at his sides as if he’s the only thing keeping me from dissolving into the floorboards. I break against his chest for the second time today, and it’s a messy, jagged ruin of a feeling. I’m so profoundly grateful he’s made of stone, because I’m currently made of glass.
His hand slides into my hair, supporting the base of my skull. It’s the only thing keeping me upright. I let my head fall back into his touch, too tired to keep up the pretense of being fine.
"You're stronger than you realize," he murmurs, his breath warm against my hair.
I let out a sound that’s half-sob, half-laugh, and it tastes like salt. "I’m not. I’m barely holding on, Silas. I can’t do this alone anymore."
I feel his muscles lock, his biceps turning to iron against my back as he pulls me even tighter, trying to squeeze the air back into my lungs. "You don't have to," he says. His voice isn't just steady; it’s an anchor dropped in the middle of my storm.
The air finally reaches the bottom of my lungs. That knot between my shoulder blades—the one I’ve been tightening for weeks finally begins to loosen. I go limp, burying my face in the hollow of his shoulder, and for the first time in a long time, I just... let someone else be strong.
Silas
The cabin is shrinking. The walls are closing in, squeezing the air out of the room until there’s nothing left to breathe but her.
Outside, the wind whistles through a seam in the window frame—a sharp, thin sound that cuts right through the heavy silence between us. The kitchen is too small. Ava is too close.
The feel of her is too intimate, the scent of her perfume a dopamine hit. It’s cloying, filling my lungs, making my pulse thud in my ears. I can’t move. If I do, the floorboards will groan, and the thin thread holding us both together is going to snap.
We can’t stay like this. If I don’t let go now, the line I can’t cross is going to vanish.
“I need to do a perimeter check,” I say, the words feeling tight as I finally force myself to step back. The cold air rushes into the space where she was.
Her eyes lock onto mine, a split second of something raw passes between us before she nods. “I’ll be right here.”
I drag myself away from her, head into my bedroom, and find the Glock I now consider hers in the drawer. I hold it for a moment, consider leaving it—letting her finish the night without another reminder of how far she’s drifted from normal. I want to let her believe, just a little longer, that a storm is only weather.
I take it anyway.
Prepared beats comfortable. Every single time.
When I get back, she’s in the kitchen wrestling with a rusty can opener and a can of peaches.
