Chapter 40
forty
Zach
By the time we reach the apartment, I already know something is off.
It’s not loud. Nothing about it has broken yet, nothing has snapped or spilled over into something we can name, but it’s there, sitting under everything, a tension that has been building quietly for days, tightening with every careful touch, every softened word, every moment where we choose restraint instead of instinct.
I felt it when we left her this morning.
I felt it on the ice, in the way my body moved without me being fully inside it.
I felt it in Jackson beside me, in the way he held himself together just enough to function, just enough to get through, while everything in him stayed locked on the idea of getting back to her.
And now, as we step back into her apartment, into her space, into the place that is supposed to feel like safety, it settles more clearly into place.
This isn’t just about protecting her anymore.
We’re starting to cage her.
Jackson moves first.
He doesn’t even slow down as the door shuts behind us, dropping his bag somewhere near the entry without looking at it, his entire focus already fixed ahead, already pulled toward her like something inside him has been waiting for this exact moment to release.
She’s on the couch, exactly where we left her, wrapped in that blanket like she’s trying to make herself smaller inside it, her hair falling softly around her shoulders, her body angled toward the door as if she’s been listening for us.
That lands harder than it should.
The fact that she was waiting.
Jackson reaches her in seconds, his hand already lifting, already touching, brushing against her cheek, her shoulder, her arm in a way that isn’t measured or careful, but instinctive, grounding, like he needs that contact more than anything else right now.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and there’s something raw under it, something that hasn’t settled since the moment he thought he lost her.
He leans in, kisses her, and she turns into it immediately.
No hesitation.
No pause.
Just that immediate response, like she’s been holding herself in place and can finally exhale now that he’s here.
I follow a moment later, slower, more aware of what I’m stepping into, more aware of the way everything in this room feels… heightened.
For the past few days, every time I’ve touched her, I’ve been conscious of it.
Conscious of her body.
Conscious of the injury.
Conscious of the baby.
Conscious of every possible way I could hurt her if I’m not careful enough. So I’ve softened everything.
Pulled everything back.
Turned instinct into control.
And standing here now, watching her, watching the way she leans into Jackson, watching the way she needs that contact, I realize exactly what that’s done.
I haven’t just protected her. I’ve distanced myself from her.
We all have.
She looks at me when I step closer. And there’s something in that look that makes me stop.
It’s not uncertainty.
It’s not fear.
It’s… searching.
Like she’s trying to figure out which version of me she’s going to get. And that hits harder than anything else has today.
So I don’t hover.
I don’t hesitate.
I close the space between us fully, my hand coming up to cup her face, not carefully, not tentatively, but with intention, grounding her attention on me instead of letting her sit in that space between us.
Her eyes lift to mine, and there’s a flicker of surprise there, something that tells me she felt the shift immediately.
Then I kiss her.
Not gentle in the way I’ve been.
Not distant.
Not restrained.
It’s controlled, but it’s deliberate, it’s present, it’s the kind of kiss that reminds her of what we are instead of what she’s been turned into these last few days.
She reacts instantly.
Her body leans into mine without hesitation, her hand lifting like she needs to hold onto something solid, something real, and the way she exhales against me, soft and unguarded, that’s what breaks something in my chest.
Because that’s not relief.
That’s her finding something she’s been missing. That’s her recognizing something that should never have been taken from her in the first place.
And we’re the ones who took it.
I don’t pull away immediately.
I let it linger just enough to settle, just enough for her to feel it fully, before I ease back slightly, my hand still holding her face, my thumb brushing lightly over her cheek in a way that’s slower now, steadier.
“Hey,” I murmur.
Her eyes stay on mine, soft, open, present in a way that feels closer to the woman we know than anything we’ve seen since we brought her home.
For a moment, she’s just her again. Not something we’re managing. Not something we’re protecting. Not something fragile.
Just… her.
And it hurts, realizing how much of that we’ve been holding back. I step back before I can overcorrect, before I can push too far in the other direction, because this isn’t about swinging between extremes.
This is about finding balance.
Jackson is watching now.
Not with tension directed at me, not with anything territorial, but with that same underlying strain that’s been sitting in him all day, that hasn’t eased since we left her.
He’s not grounded.
He’s holding on.
And Elijah, I don’t need to look to know what he’s doing.
He hasn’t moved. Phone in his hand, his attention split. Half of him here. Half of him somewhere else entirely.
Security.
Movement.
Threat.
Control.
I glance at him anyway. He’s watching her. Constantly.
Not in a way anyone else would pick up on, but I see it in the micro-shifts, the way his attention sharpens every time she moves, the way his body stays coiled even when he looks still.
And underneath that, the fear.
It’s there.
Raw.
Unfiltered.
He’s just buried it under something colder. Something more dangerous. Something that looks a hell of a lot like the man his family has always expected him to become.
Lia shifts slightly in front of me. I feel it more than see it. That subtle tension. That quiet tightening.
“I feel… stuck,” she says.
The words are soft. But they land like something heavy. Jackson’s hand stills against her. Elijah goes quiet on the phone.
And I feel it.
That moment.
That pressure point.
Where everything we’ve been doing collides with what she actually needs. She glances between us, something in her expression caught between frustration and something softer, something more uncertain.
“I just need to do something,” she continues. “I can’t keep sitting here like this.”
I already know what Elijah is going to say. I know it before the word leaves his mouth.
“No.”
It’s immediate.
Final.
Controlled.
And I see it. The way her shoulders shift. The way something in her pulls back just slightly.
Not fully.
But enough.
And that’s it. That’s where everything settles into clarity. We’re not helping her move forward. We’re holding her in place.
“We can all go,” I say.
Elijah’s gaze snaps to me, sharp, immediate.
“No. She’s not leaving the apartment.”
I don’t react to the tone.
I don’t push against it.
I just meet his gaze and hold it there, steady.
“We can all go,” I repeat. “She won’t be alone. Security will be with us. We control the environment. We control the time. We control the exposure.”
His jaw tightens.
“She doesn’t need to be out there.”
“She needs to feel like she’s alive.” I say.
That lands. I see it land. Not fully. But enough to create a crack.
I don’t push harder. Because this isn’t about forcing him. This is about making him see her.
I glance at her. And there it is. That look.
Hope.
Carefully held. Like she doesn’t trust it enough to fully reach for it.
“She needs this,” I say quietly.
Not directed. Not confrontational. Just… true.
Elijah looks at her. Really looks at her. And for a second, the control slips.
The fear shows.
The love shows.
The reason behind everything he’s doing becomes visible.
And then he pulls it back together.
“Fine.”
The word is tight. Controlled. But it’s there.
Relief moves through her instantly.
I feel it in the way her body softens, in the way she exhales like something just loosened inside her.
“We go together,” Elijah continues, already structuring it, already reclaiming control in a way he can live with. “Security stays close. We don’t go far. We don’t stay long.”
I let him have it. Because that’s how this works. He keeps control. She gets freedom. And we meet somewhere in the middle.
Jackson doesn’t argue. He’s watching her. Watching the way she reacts. And I can see it hitting him too. That understanding. That shift. That this is what she needs.
I turn back to her.
“I’ll help you get ready.”
She looks at me. Really looks at me.
And then she moves, her arms wrapping around me without hesitation, holding me in a way that isn’t careful or restrained.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
And that, that’s what breaks me.
Because she shouldn’t have to thank us for this.
My arms come around her, pulling her closer, my hand sliding up her back, holding her in a way that’s steady, grounding, intentional.
We did this.
We made her feel like she had to ask. That stops now.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur.
And this time, it’s not just comfort. It’s a decision. Because I see it now. Jackson is too deep in his fear to step outside it. Elijah is too locked into control to loosen it. And if no one bridges that gap, she’s the one who pays for it.
So I will.
I’ll be the one who balances them.
I’ll be the one who pushes when they can’t.
I’ll be the one who brings her back to herself.
Because right now, that’s what she needs most.
“Come on,” I say softly, brushing my hand down her arm. “Let’s get you ready.”
She nods, a small, real smile touching her lips.
And this time, we don’t stop at the idea of it.
We follow through.
Getting her ready takes time.
Not because she can’t do it, but because every movement still pulls at the healing skin along her side, because her body is still catching up to everything it’s been forced through, because even standing for too long makes her shift slightly, makes her breathe differently, makes all three of us watch more closely than we probably should.
But we don’t stop her.
That’s the difference.
We don’t take it from her.
Jackson brings her shoes to put on instead of insisting he do it for her. I help her steady when she needs it, not before.
Elijah stays close, but he doesn’t interrupt.
It’s controlled.
Measured.
But it’s moving.
And when we finally step out of the apartment together, when the door closes behind us and the hallway stretches out ahead, it feels like something small but significant has shifted.
Security is already in place.
Two men at the building entrance.
One outside.
Another vehicle parked where it shouldn’t be if you didn’t know what you were looking for.
Elijah clocks all of it immediately.
Adjusts.
Controls.
But he doesn’t stop us. We move as a unit. Down the hallway. Into the lift. Out into open air.
And when her feet touch pavement for the first time since we brought her home, she exhales.
It’s quiet.
Soft.
But it’s real.
Fresh air. Space. Movement. Not a hospital room. Not a bed. Not stillness. Alive.
We don’t go far. We don’t need to.
Just a slow walk along the street, controlled, contained, watched from every angle Elijah can manage.
Jackson stays close to her side, his hand brushing hers, grounding.
I stay just behind and beside, close enough to catch her if she stumbles, far enough to let her walk on her own.
And Elijah, he watches everything.
Everyone.
Every movement.
But he walks with us. And that matters.
Because this, this is the first step. Not just for her.
For all of us.
And as she tilts her face slightly into the air, eyes closing for a brief second like she’s holding onto the feeling of it, I know we made the right call.
Because for the first time since we got her back, she doesn’t look trapped.
She looks like she’s starting to come back to us.
And this time, we don’t take that away from her.