AFTERSHOCK
Cash
She bolts. Her feet are on the stairs before she’s even halfway across the porch. She doesn’t slam the door or say a word. She disappears.
Stix stays silent, gives me a look that says, “Go.”
So I do.
I take the stairs one step at a time. No rush now. It’s not a chase, it’s a process.
Outside the bathroom, I tilt my head toward the door. She stifles her whimpers. Each ragged inhale makes her agony mine. She’s trying to hold it in, to keep us out.
I knock, gently.
“Sara, open the door.”
Nothing. I wait.
The lock is engaged, but she doesn’t know it’s a trick one. Stix made sure it can be opened from the outside. I could be in there in seconds.
I knock again. “Come on. Let me in.”
Still no response.
Every instinct says push, fix it, kick the damn door down, but I told myself I’d do this differently.
No scaring her more than she already is.
I’ll wait her out. Even if it goes against everything in me.
I pace, running through the same breathing technique from before.
We didn’t teach her bullshit. That stuff actually works.
A few long minutes crawl past.
The door opens. She stands there with her arms folded, eyes low, her whole body taut, held together by sheer will.
“Why would you do that to me?” she whispers.
The words aren’t loud, but they land hard. Knowing they were coming doesn’t soften the blow.
“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...?”
She nods.
I pour warm water over her hair. She closes her eyes as I gently work the thick liquid in, my fingers massaging her scalp. With each tender touch, she melts a little more. Her hair is silky and fragrant in my hands. I savor the texture, not rushing a thing.
As she starts to rise, I hold up a towel to give her some privacy. My gaze stays locked on hers. I don’t look anywhere else.
I gesture toward the stairs. “Want some food?”
She hesitates.
“I know you’re tired,” I say, voice light. “But Stix is cooking, and we both know we definitely want what he’s making.”
I offer a smile. She doesn’t return it.
“I don’t think I can... be normal right now,” she says, voice small.
“You don’t have to be normal. You don’t have to talk. Sit with us for a bit and eat?”
The little sigh she lets out makes me doubt I convinced her.
It takes everything I have to resist the urge to lift her out of the tub, dry and dress her, and make her come to the kitchen with me.
I decide on a compromise. “I’ll be right outside.
You don’t have to go down alone, all right?
” I say as I shut the door, not giving her the chance to say no.
She emerges from the bathroom a couple of minutes later with fresh clothes and damp hair. The pain is still with her. She’s still halfway under.
At least she’s not drowning alone.