Chapter 38
thirty-eight
Liana
The days blur together in a way that doesn’t feel like healing.
They feel contained.
Measured out in soft, careful increments where everything is watched, adjusted, softened before it can become anything else, and I know why, I understand it in a way that sits deep in my chest because I know what they saw, I know what they carried me out of, I know how close I came to not being here at all, but understanding it doesn’t make it easier to live inside.
The apartment is warm, familiar, filled with everything that used to make it feel like mine, and yet there’s something different in it now, something tighter, something that presses in at the edges of every moment and doesn’t quite let me settle into it the way I want to.
Zach tracks everything I eat.
Jackson tracks everything I feel.
Elijah tracks everything that could possibly go wrong.
And somewhere inside all of that, I’ve started to feel like I’m slipping again.
Not the same way.
Not as deep.
Not as lost.
But I can feel the edges of it, the way it brushes up against me when I’m not actively holding myself together.
It’s there in the way they look at me like I might break if they let their guard down for even a second.
It’s there in the way every movement I make is answered before I even finish it, in the way I can’t reach for something without one of them already handing it to me, already adjusting it, already making sure it won’t hurt.
It should feel like care.
It does feel like care.
But it also feels like I’m being wrapped up so tightly that I can’t breathe properly inside it.
And I can’t let myself go back to that place again.
“I’m going to have a shower,” I say, pushing myself upright slowly, feeling the pull in my side but also the strength underneath it, the quiet reassurance that I am already healing, that my body is not as fragile as they think it is.
Zach is on his feet before I’ve even finished speaking.
“I’ll help you.”
“I don’t need—” The protest comes automatically, instinctive, a reflex from a part of me that doesn’t want to feel like I’ve lost control over my own body.
“I want to,” he says, softer, but there’s something in it that makes me stop.
It’s not force.
It’s not insistence.
It’s… something deeper.
Something that feels like he needs this.
And I understand that too.
So I let the rest of the resistance fall away.
“Okay.”
I don’t look directly at Elijah as I move past him, but I feel him, the weight of his attention, the low murmur of his voice as he continues speaking quietly into his phone, something about security, about timing, about things I don’t want to pull into focus right now.
I don’t want to think about that world.
Not yet.
Not when I’m still trying to find my footing in this one.
Jackson brushes past me on the other side, pressing a soft kiss to my temple as he says, “I’ll get you something to drink, sweetheart. And something light to eat when you’re done.”
I nod, letting it happen, letting all of it happen, because fighting it feels like too much effort right now.
Because part of me still needs it.
Because part of me still wants them close.
Zach stays with me as we move into the bathroom, his hand light at my back, careful, measured, like he’s constantly calculating how much pressure I can handle, how much space I need, how much is too much.
Everything about him is controlled.
Deliberate.
When the water starts running, the sound fills the space in a way that feels grounding, familiar, and for a second, I just stand there, letting it settle into me, letting it quiet the noise in my head.
I step under it slowly.
The warmth hits my skin and I close my eyes for a moment, letting it run over me, letting it wash away the remnants of the hospital, the smell of antiseptic, the feeling of being trapped in that place where everything was out of my control.
Zach moves behind me, careful, steady, his hands gentle as he helps me adjust, helps me balance, helps me move without pulling anything too sharply.
He reaches for the shampoo, working it through my hair with slow, deliberate movements, his fingers massaging lightly against my scalp, and for a second, it feels good.
Really good.
I exhale without meaning to, my body softening slightly under his touch, and I feel the way he notices it immediately.
“Does that feel good, baby?” he murmurs.
There it is.
A glimpse.
A flicker of something familiar.
“Yeah,” I say softly.
He leans in, pressing a kiss to the side of my head, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary, and for a second, something sparks in my chest.
Recognition.
Connection.
But it fades just as quickly. Because the way he touches me after that shifts again.
Careful. Measured. Like I’m something fragile. Like I might break.
He washes the rest of me the same way, his hands light, controlled, avoiding my wound, avoiding anything that might hurt, anything that might push too far.
It should feel safe.
It does feel safe.
But it also feels… distant.
Like there’s a layer between us that wasn’t there before.
Like he’s holding something back. Like all of them are.
And I don’t know how to reach through that yet.
When I step out of the shower, he wraps me in a towel immediately, drying me carefully, avoiding my side, adjusting everything so I don’t have to think about it, don’t have to manage it, don’t have to do anything for myself.
I let him. I let all of it happen. But I feel it. Every second of it.
The way I’m being handled instead of touched.
The way I’m being cared for instead of wanted.
The way something has shifted between us, and I don’t know how to shift it back.
By the time I’m dressed, the soreness has settled into something dull and manageable, something I can move with instead of around.
“I don’t want to go back to bed,” I say as he reaches for me again.
He pauses.
“Okay,” he says after a second. “What do you want to do?”
“I just want to sit somewhere else,” I admit. “I don’t want to feel stuck in that room.”
There’s a brief flicker of something in his eyes, hesitation, calculation, before he nods.
“Couch?”
“Yeah.”
He helps me out into the living area, slower than I would move on my own, steadier, making sure every step is controlled, supported.
Elijah is still on the phone.
He looks at me as we come in, and for a moment, just a moment, everything else disappears.
There’s something in his eyes that hits me straight in the chest.
Fear.
Love.
Something darker underneath it.
Something cold and determined that doesn’t belong to the man I knew before.
And then it’s gone.
Hidden behind that controlled, unreadable expression he’s started wearing like armor.
I don’t know how to reach him.
I don’t know how to get past that.
And that, that hurts in a way I wasn’t expecting.
Jackson comes over a second later, setting a cup of tea down in front of me, along with something small to eat, his movements softer, easier, more familiar than the others, like he’s trying to hold onto something that hasn’t changed.
“There you go, sweetheart.”
“Thank you.”
Zach settles behind me, his fingers moving into my hair again, brushing it slowly, carefully, and this time when I lean into it, I don’t stop myself.
It feels good.
It feels grounding.
It feels like something I recognize.
And when he notices, when his fingers slow just slightly, when his hand slides down to the back of my neck and he presses a soft, lingering kiss there, I feel it.
That spark again.
That connection. That reminder. But it doesn’t hold. Because just as quickly, it shifts back.
Careful.
Measured.
Controlled.
And I can’t ignore it anymore.
“Are you guys going to your game this weekend?” I ask, my voice quieter than I intend, but it still cuts through the room.
Jackson stills slightly beside me.
Zach’s hand pauses in my hair.
Elijah’s voice on the phone goes silent.
“We need to stay here and look after you,” Jackson says after a second.
Something in me tightens.
“No.”
The word comes out sharper than I expect.
He frowns slightly. “Sweetheart—”
“No,” I repeat, more firmly this time, turning to look at him. “How long has it been since you’ve played?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“That’s the point,” I say, my frustration starting to rise now, mixing with everything else sitting under the surface. “You’re not talking about it because you know what you’re doing.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“I’m not throwing anything away.”
“You are,” I push, the words coming faster now, stronger, because I can feel it, I can feel myself slipping into that same place again where everything revolves around what happened to me and nothing else is allowed to exist outside of it.
“You’re putting everything on hold like I’m not here.
Like I didn’t make it out of that. Like I’m still there. ”
The room goes quieter.
Zach’s hand drops from my hair.
Elijah ends the call.
“I’m here,” I continue, my voice shaking slightly now, but I don’t stop. “You found me. I’m okay. I need to move forward from this, and I can’t do that if everything around me is frozen.”
“We’re not frozen,” Elijah says, his voice low, controlled.
It makes something in my chest tighten.
“Then what aren’t you telling me?”
There’s a beat. A pause.
“I can’t play,” he says. “I’m suspended. For the rest of the season.”
The words land heavier than I expect.
“What?”
“I got into a fight.”
Of course he did.
I swallow, my gaze shifting between them.
“What about you?” I ask Jackson and Zach.
“We’re prioritizing you,” Zach says quietly.
And something in me snaps.
“I don’t want that,” I say, my voice breaking slightly now, emotion rising faster than I can control it. “I don’t want to be the reason everything stops. I don’t want to sit here and feel like my entire life is paused because of what he did to me.”
Silence.
“I already did that once,” I continue, softer now, but more raw. “After the first time. After the video. I let him take everything from me. I let him turn me into someone I didn’t recognize, someone who couldn’t move forward, couldn’t live properly, couldn’t—”
My voice breaks.
I force it back.
“I’m not doing that again,” I whisper. “I’m not letting him win again. Not even like this.”
The words settle into the room.
Heavy.
Real.
And I see it then. The way they all go still. The way something shifts behind their expressions.
“I need you to live your lives,” I say, looking at them, really looking at them now. “I need you to go to that game. I need you to play. I need something around me to feel normal so I can start to feel normal again.”
Jackson exhales slowly.
Zach looks down.
Elijah watches me like he’s trying to understand something deeper than what I’m saying.
“It’s okay,” Zach says finally, his voice softer now, steadier. “We’ll go.”
Relief hits me faster than I expect.
“Thank you.”
There’s a pause.
“I want to come,” I add.
Elijah’s response is immediate.
“No.”
I blink. “What?”
“You’re not going somewhere public like that right now.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“No.”
The word is sharper this time. More final.
“It’s a game,” I push. “I won’t be alone. You’ll be there.”
“Not this one.”
Frustration rises again, but before it can turn into something bigger...
“Next game,” Jackson cuts in gently. “You come to the next one. We’ll set you up in the player family area. Away from the crowds. Controlled.”
I look at him.
Then at Elijah.
Then at Zach.
It’s a compromise. Not what I want. But not nothing.
“Fine,” I say finally. “The next one.”
Elijah nods once.
“I’ll be here with you for this one,” he says.
I don’t argue.
Not this time.
Not when I can feel the tension still sitting under everything, the way we’re all trying to find our footing again, the way none of us quite knows how to move forward yet without breaking something else in the process.
“Okay.”
Zach’s hand returns to my hair, slower now, steadier, and I let myself lean into it again, closing my eyes for a moment.
Not to disappear.
Not to shut down.
But to hold onto something.
To remind myself, I’m still here.
And this time, I’m not letting go of myself again.