Chapter Thirty-Two Joshua
Chapter Thirty-Two
Joshua
By the time I got her out of the building, she wasn’t fighting me anymore. Not talking. Not crying. Not even trembling, just… still.
The drive was silent. Streetlights flickered over her face, pale and blank. Every few seconds, I looked over just to make sure she was still breathing.
I didn’t even think about where we were going until I was unlocking my front door. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
She didn’t question it. Didn’t ask why. Just let me guide her inside, shoes squeaking on the floor, water dripping from her soaked clothes onto the marble.
“Sit,” I whispered, voice hoarse. She didn’t.
So I lifted her. Carried her.
Her weight against me felt wrong, not heavy, but light in the worst way. Like she’d given up on gravity.
I set her down on the couch in my room; the material darkened under her wet clothes. She blinked once, slowly, and then not at all.
“I’ll—uh—get something dry,” I muttered, half to myself. My voice cracked halfway through.
The closet door creaked open. Hoodie. Sweatpants. Something soft. Anything.
When I came back, she hadn’t moved.
“Come on,” I said quietly, reaching for her hand. Her fingers were cold. “You’ll get sick.”
Still nothing. But when I tugged, she followed. Barely. Like her body was on autopilot.
The bathroom light burned too brightly against the dark of the hall. I set the clothes on the counter, turned the water on for a second just to warm the air, and pointed to the towel rack.
“You can—change,” I said, turning away.
But I didn’t leave.
I couldn’t.
I just stood facing the door, eyes fixed on the handle.
If I left, she’d lock it. If she locked it, I might never hear her again.
So I stood there.
The sound of fabric hitting tile, wet clothes peeling off skin, filled the silence.
My heart wouldn’t calm down. Every sound made my chest ache.
Then quiet.
Too quiet.
“…Aurora?” I whispered.
No answer.
I turned before I could talk myself out of it.
She was slumped against the counter, hair dripping, wrapped in the towel like she didn’t even feel the cold.
“Jesus—” I muttered, crossing the room. I caught her before she slid down, her body limp against mine.
“Hey, hey, stay up.”
She didn’t respond. Just… leaned.
Her head dropped against my chest, water from her hair soaking through my shirt again.
I swallowed hard, one hand on her shoulder to keep her steady while the other plugged in the dryer.
The low hum filled the room.
Warm air hit her hair, lifting strands as they dried, and she just… stared. At the floor. At nothing.
Her eyes were open but empty.
I brushed her hair through my fingers gently, careful around her cast.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Just existed there, quiet, hollow, and somehow still beautiful even like this. And I just stood there, drying her hair in slow circles, whispering half to myself, half to her,
“You’re safe now, okay? You’re here.”
But she didn’t answer.
And I kept drying anyway, because stopping meant silence, and silence meant losing her again.
I walked her back to my bed after, one arm around her waist, the other steadying the cast that looked too heavy for her tired body to carry.
She didn’t resist. Didn’t say a word. Just followed wherever I led, like she didn’t have the strength to decide for herself anymore.
When I pulled the blanket up, she sank into the mattress instantly. Eyes closed before I even finished tucking her in.
Her breathing evened out, slow but shallow.
I stood there for a second, frozen, dripping onto the floor, my shirt still clinging to my skin, my sweats sticking to my legs. A puddle formed at my feet.
I didn’t care.
For once, I didn’t care about the floor, the mess, the cold—nothing.
Just her.
The way her chest barely rose. The way her face stayed pale, her lips parted as if she forgot how to rest properly.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced myself to move.
The towel I grabbed from the rack wasn’t enough. I dried my hair anyway, rubbing the back of my neck until it burned. The dryer was too loud; I didn’t want to wake her.
She’d already been through enough tonight.
When I came back, the room felt smaller somehow.
Quieter.
The only light was the dim bedside lamp, glowing against her face. She looked… fragile. Too fragile for someone who’d fought this hard for months.
I sat on the floor beside the bed, back against the bedside table, and just stared.
Her cast was still damp; the white turned grey where the water had soaked in. I’d have to fix that tomorrow. Her hair was dry now, the strands curling slightly from the heat. Her cheeks were pale, so pale.
All because of me.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, hands covering my face.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered into my palms. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”
She didn’t move.
Water kept dripping from my sleeves, little droplets hitting the floor like a slow clock.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Every drop sounded like guilt, steady and inescapable.
I looked up again, watching the way her fingers twitched under the blanket, probably from a dream.
Or maybe a memory.
Maybe she was dreaming about the pool, or the ball, or every cruel word I’d thrown at her since she arrived here.
I used to think I didn’t care what people thought of me. That their opinions didn’t mean anything. But seeing her like this because of me…
I’ve never wanted to be someone else more in my life.
Someone kinder.
Someone she could’ve trusted.
I stayed there until the clock struck midnight.
And I still couldn’t move.
The sound of her breathing was the only thing keeping me anchored, reminding me that despite everything I’d done, she was still here.
For now.