Dalton
Las Vegas, Nevada
I know something’s wrong the second Lila says my name. Not the casual way people say it across a table, not teasing or amused or impatient. Quiet, tight, and urgent.
Everything in me stills.
My beer pauses halfway to my mouth. Logan’s voice fades into background noise. Wells is still smirking about something I didn’t catch, Townsend is mid-argument with someone on the phone, Hadley is humming to herself over dinner. It’s all normal, though Lila’s expression is anything but.
“Do you have Hadley?” It comes out low, automatic.
“Yes of course, I’ve got her.”
That’s all I need.
My chair scrapes back faster than I intend, drawing a brief glance from Logan. He doesn’t ask anything out loud, just studies my face for half a second before giving the smallest nod.
Wells’s smirk deepens like he thinks this is something entertaining, something harmless, and I roll my eyes as I pass him, muttering a distracted, “Shut up,” that barely registers even to me.
My pulse is already climbing.
Something is wrong. Not inconvenience wrong. Not awkward wrong. Something deeper.
The hallway feels too long. I reach the first bathroom door. Vacant. The second. I knock twice, firm but careful. “Ivy?”
Nothing.
I try the handle. It’s unlocked. The door opens slowly, and the sight inside hits harder than anything I was prepared for.
She’s on the floor.
Curled in on herself, arms wrapped tight around her ribs like she’s holding herself together piece by piece. Her shoulders shake violently, breath coming in short, broken bursts like her lungs forgot how to work.
Her curled blonde hair has fallen forward, hiding most of her face.
She’s not just crying. It’s panic. The kind you don’t choose. The kind that chooses you.
Something primal in my chest snaps tight.
I close the door behind me quietly, locking us inside this small, sterile space that suddenly feels too bright and too exposed for how fragile she looks.
“Ivy,” I say softly, lowering myself slowly so I don’t startle her.
Her head jerks slightly at the sound of my voice, but she doesn’t look up.
Her fingers are trembling. She’s trying to breathe and failing.
That’s all I need to see.
I don’t ask permission this time.
I slide onto the tile in front of her and gently gather her into me, guiding her into my lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
For a split second she goes rigid, like she might pull away—
Then she folds.
Her face presses hard into my chest, her fingers clutching fistfuls of my shirt like she needs the physical proof that something solid exists.
Something steady. Something real.
Her sob breaks against my collarbone, hot and shattered.
I wrap my arms around her immediately, firm, secure, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other pressed protectively between her shoulder blades. I hold her like she might fall apart if I don’t. Like I could physically keep the world from reaching her if I just hold tight enough.
Her breathing is ragged, uneven, almost painful to listen to.
“In…slow,” I murmur quietly, my lips brushing her hair without thinking.
I don’t know if she even hears me.
Her body shakes hard again, panic cresting, and instinct takes over. My hand moves slowly, gently, up and down her back in steady strokes. A grounding rhythm, predictable, safe.
She grips me tighter. I let her. I let her cling. I let her hide. I let her cry into me like she has nowhere else to put it.
Something inside me burns at the realization that whatever caused this…it lives inside her. All the time.
Hidden beneath the quiet composure, the careful smiles, the steady patience she gives everyone else.
She carries this. Alone.
My jaw tightens.
I don’t know what triggered this moment, but I know enough.
Enough pieces. Enough fragments. Enough from everything I didn’t mean to witness, but I did.
I was there. After they got her out. After the six days that never made headlines but should have. After the briefings. After the hushed conversations in hallways. After the way her face stayed with me long after the mission moved on.
She doesn’t know that I was there. That I know the barest outline of what she endured. That I’ve imagined the rest more times than I should admit.
Someday, I’ll tell her. Someday, I won’t keep that distance between what I know and what she’s chosen not to share.
But not here.
Not when she’s trembling in my arms like the ground just disappeared beneath her feet.
Right now she doesn’t need truth.
She needs quiet.
She needs steady.
She needs someone who doesn’t need anything from her in return.
So I give her that.
My lips press lightly to the crown of her head, not romantic, just reassurance.
Just I’m here, I’ve got you, you’re not alone right now.
Her breathing stutters again, catching halfway between inhale and exhale.
“I know,” I murmur softly, even though she hasn’t said anything. “I know. Just breathe.”
Her fingers tighten again in my shirt, knuckles pressing into my ribs, anchoring herself to the rise and fall of my chest.
Gradually, slowly, the rhythm begins to return.
Jagged inhale. Longer exhale. Her shoulders loosen by degrees, tension easing one fragile inch at a time.
She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t try to pretend she’s fine.
And I respect the hell out of that.
Her weight in my lap feels natural in a way that makes something complicated twist low in my chest—an awareness I refuse to examine too closely right now.
Because this moment isn’t about me. It isn’t about the way her fingers are still curled in my shirt. Or the way her cheek rests just beneath my collarbone. Or the way my entire body is hyperaware of the trust she’s placing in me without saying a single word.
It’s about her feeling safe enough to fall apart.
Eventually the sobs quiet to small, shaky breaths.
I brush my thumb gently across her temple, catching the edge of a tear before it can fall further.
“Are you okay?” I ask quietly.
Not what happened. Not why. Not tell me.
A small nod against my chest.
That’s enough. I don’t push. I won’t ever push her into places she isn’t ready to go.
I reach behind me for a handful of paper towels and gently place them in her hand. Her fingers brush mine, cool and slightly unsteady.
When I lace my fingers loosely through hers, she doesn’t hesitate. Just holds on. Not tightly. Just enough. Like she’s making sure I’m still real.
“Want to head back?” I ask.
Another small nod.
I stand slowly, keeping one hand lightly at her elbow in case the ground still feels unsteady beneath her feet.
She dabs carefully at her cheeks, taking a breath, trying to rebuild the version of herself she shows the world.
But I’ve seen the other version now.
The hurting one. The human one. The one who carries invisible scars.
And I’ll never unknow that.
We walk slowly toward the table, fingers still loosely linked between us.
The contact feels…significant.
More than it should.
Not romantic. Not quite. Just charged with something unspoken.
Trust.
Need.
Restraint.
Responsibility.
Just before the corner opens back into the noise of the restaurant, I release her hand.
It feels like the right thing to do.
Give her control back. Give her privacy. Give her the ability to choose how much of this moment belongs to anyone else.
But the second our hands separate, regret hits fast and sharp.
Her fingers curl slightly like they expected resistance that isn’t there anymore.
Her step falters for half a beat.
And I have to resist the urge to reach back for her again.
We step into view.
Logan glances up first, eyes flicking quickly between us, assessing.
Lila’s attention softens the second she sees Ivy upright.
Wells opens his mouth, probably ready with some smart comment, but something in my expression must stop him.
Ivy slides back into her seat. Almost composed.
Close enough that no one pushes.
But I notice the way her hand settles briefly against the edge of the table like she’s still grounding herself. The way she leans forward and kisses the top of Hadley’s head murmuring a “hey baby” before actually sitting down.
I notice everything now.
And I keep my hands to myself.
Even though every instinct I have says not to let her sit through the rest of this night without knowing someone is still right here. Right beside her. Ready. Whenever she needs me again.