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“I hate these moments. The helpless feeling of having zero idea what to do. Sure, I’ve read books, I’ve learned strategies from Jessica, but it’s so hard to hang on to those threads in the emotion of the moment. I hate that this little boy I love so much is going to continue experiencing these things and dealing with these wild emotions. Knowing it’s not his fault, that he can’t help it, not really. That choices adults made created these connections in his brain.”

She takes a deep inhale, and I continue gently kneading the muscles of her neck.

“But I hate how I know those facts in my mind but still get so frustrated, so angry with him in the height of the moment. Sometimes I think—” Danae abruptly stops speaking.

“You think . . . what?” I ask, waiting for her to fill in the gap of her thoughts.

“Never mind,” she says, dropping her hands from her face and staring straight ahead.

I lean forward, attempting to make eye contact that she doesn’t allow. I nudge her knee with mine. “You can tell me. Whatever it is.”

She shakes her head, eyes still boring a hole into the wall across from us. “No. I don’t want to say it out loud. Just . . . never mind.”

“Danae, I won’t—”

She holds up a hand to cut me off. “Please, stop. I don’t want to talk any more right now.”

Her posture is giving loud “back off” vibes, so I stop pressing the issue. Instead, I wrap my hand around her shoulder and tug her toward me, murmuring a quiet, “Come here.”

Danae leans into the invitation, laying her head on my chest as I sink back against the crook of the couch. Her legs curl beside her, knees resting on my thighs. I move to prop my feet on the coffee table but pause to ask, “Is this allowed?”

She sighs deeply, and I bite back a smile. “Normally, no. But these are extenuating circumstances.”

Legs stretched in front of me, I wrap both arms around Danae and hold her tightly against me. She’s not crying, not speaking. Just staring and breathing. The lack of tears pricks at me with concern, but I quietly trace my fingers along her spine, up and down her arm, up the curve of her neck to her scalp.

“What was that you whispered to Jason in bed?” I ask.

“I’m with you one hundred percent, forever,” she says, voice tiny. “It’s something I told him early on to try to explain what it means when I say ‘I love you’ to him. I think he needs the reminder a lot.” Her voice sounds so hollow—drained and empty—despite the significance of the words she’s saying.

Closing my eyes, I start mentally brainstorming ways to fix this for her. When problems arise, I lean into my competencies to find solutions. I take action to make things better.

But if my upbringing has taught me anything—if being Sam and Ian’s big brother has taught me anything—it’s that there is no simple solution to what’s happening in Jason’s brain, in his body.

And I hate the feeling of powerlessness that brings.

My arms tighten around Danae, hoping that she has a sliver of comfort in not being alone.

Chapter forty-one

Danae

Afamiliar tune pierces through the bubble of unconsciousness. I’ve heard it before, but it doesn’t sound quite right. Straining my ears, I finally place the tune as the alarm on my phone. But it sounds muffled, distant.

Moving my head a fraction of an inch, I realize my cheek is resting against something much firmer, much warmer than my pillow. Something moving up and down, slowly and methodically. My eyes squint open to see not my white pillowcase, but the navy blue of Griffin’s t-shirt.

My body slowly wakens and consciously recognizes every point of contact with Griffin. My cheek against his chest. My knee draped over his leg. My fingertips clutching the neckline of his shirt. His arm around my back, hand resting on my waist. His fingers wrapped around the back of my knee.

I’m suddenly very, very warm.

The alarm on my phone doesn’t sound right because it’s not sitting on the nightstand next to me—it’s across the room in my purse. We still have school today. Griffin has a flight with his team today. We have to get up.

Even armed with full consciousness and logic, I’m reluctant to move. I could stay right here in this cozy bubble and pretend that allmy troubled thoughts from last night don’t exist. For just a moment longer.

I carefully raise my head enough to look at Griffin’s face to see if he’s awake. His head is dropped back, lips parted. I’m positive that he’s going to have some serious neck pain today after sleeping in that position all night. A half-snore escapes from his mouth—the kind that isn’t quite pronounced enough to be called a snore, but throaty enough to disqualify as heavy breathing.

The sound brings a gentle smile to my lips, followed by stinging behind my eyes.

If people could see the real man behind the Wizard of Defense persona, they’d only be even more impressed. How did I get lucky enough to be the one curled up on the couch with him?