Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR
ZACK
The safe house is quiet in the way only places meant for hiding ever are, tucked into anonymity with clean lines and neutral walls, everything designed to be forgettable.
I like it that way. Hazel is wrapped in my jacket as I guide her inside, her steps slow and uneven, exhaustion clinging to her heavier than fear now the adrenaline has burned off.
She doesn’t say much, just follows my lead, trusting me in a way that lands in my chest and stays there, heavy and humbling.
I keep checking her—asking if she’s okay, if she’s dizzy, if she needs to sit—and every time she nods or murmurs something soft, I feel that same rush of gratitude that I can’t quite get under control.
She’s here. She’s breathing. She’s safe.
The words loop in my head like a prayer I didn’t know I believed in.
When I mention the shower, I do it carefully, like I’m handling something fragile. “You don’t have to,” I tell her. “But the warm water might help. I’ll stay right outside.”
She hesitates, fingers curling into the fabric at her chest, and for a second I worry I’ve pushed too far—that I’ve asked for something she isn’t ready to give. Then she looks at me, eyes tired but steady, and nods once. “I don’t think I can stand on my own,” she admits quietly. “Not yet.”
Something tightens in my throat. “Okay,” I say. “We’ll go slow.”
The bathroom fills with steam as the water warms, the sound steady and grounding.
I move with deliberate care, explaining everything before I do it, giving her every chance to stop me if she needs to.
When she finally lets the jacket slide from her shoulders and she lets me help her step out of the clothes she was taken in, I keep my focus on her face, on her breathing, on the way she leans slightly toward me like she’s anchoring herself there.
It hits me then, not as desire or shock, but as something quieter and deeper.
The weight of trust settling heavy in my chest. This is the first time I’ve seen her like this, stripped of her armor of brightness and jokes, vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with flirting or bravado.
There’s nothing performative about this, and I know this is an important moment for us.
I don’t look longer than I need to. I don’t let the moment become anything other than what it is.
I guide her under the water, one hand steady at her elbow, the other braced at her back, and she sighs when the warmth hits her skin, a sound so small and relieved it almost breaks me.
I grab a washcloth, soap it carefully, and keep my movements slow and respectful, checking in with her every few seconds.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” I say quietly.
She nods, eyes closed, shoulders loosening inch by inch as the tension drains out of her. “You’re doing okay,” she murmurs, her voice thick with exhaustion. “I trust you.”
The words land harder than anything else tonight.
I help her rinse, help her sit when her knees wobble, then wrap her in a towel that’s almost too big, swallowing her whole.
When she sways, I catch her without thinking, her forehead resting briefly against my chest, and I stay still, letting her take what she needs from the contact without asking for anything in return.
Back in the bedroom, I tuck her into clean sheets, make sure the room is warm, the lights low, the door locked. She reaches out before I can step away, her fingers curling weakly around my wrist.
“Don’t leave me,” she says, not quite a request, not quite a plea, but something in between.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I promise, and this time she believes me.
As she drifts toward sleep, her breathing finally evening out, I sit nearby and let myself feel it—the relief, the fear that came too late, and the overwhelming gratitude that she’s alive and here and trusting me with pieces of herself.
I’m now realizing this bright sunshine doesn’t give as freely as I thought.
I misunderstood her, and I realize I could probably learn quite a lot from her.