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I reach out, fingers brushing his knee. “Come here.”

He doesn’t hesitate. In a second, he’s beside me on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle me. I lean against him, tucking my head under his chin, and his arms come around me instantly—tight, protective, like he needs the contact just as much as I do.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers into my hair.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I should’ve been there sooner. I should’ve—”

“Eddie,” I cut in, lifting my head so he has to see me. “You came. You found me. I never stopped believing you would.”

His jaw clenches. His throat works. “I saw you like that and I lost it. I’ve never been that scared in my life. I kept thinking what if I’d been minutes later? What if—”

“Stop.” I press my palm to his cheek. “Don’t go there. I’m right here. We’re okay now.”

He nods, slowly. But the pain doesn’t leave his eyes.

I stroke my thumb across his cheekbone. “You got me back, Eddie. That’s all that matters.”

He leans in and kisses me. Slow. Careful. Like I might break. But I don’t. I kiss him back, ignoring the pain in my lip and face, because I need to feel him, need to remind us both that I’m still here. That we’re still here.

When we part, I lean my forehead against his and whisper, “I love you.”

His breath shudders. “I love you too,” he says. “So much it makes me feel insane.”

I smile. “You are a little insane.”

He huffs a quiet laugh and pulls me back against his chest. “I’m not letting you out of my sight again. Not for a second.”

“Good,” I murmur, eyes fluttering closed. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

His arms tighten around me.

And in the silence, wrapped in him, I let myself rest.

Safe.

Loved.

Home.

41.Laney

I swearif Eddie tries to carry me to the bathroom one more time, I’m going to start biting. I love him. With everything in me, but I’m bruised, not broken. And the way he hovers—like I’m made of glass, like if he takes his eyes off me for a second I might disappear again—is starting to gnaw at something deep inside my chest.

I pad barefoot into the living room, slow but steady, one hand braced lightly on the back of the couch as I move. Eddie looks up from where he’s setting tea on the coffee table like I’ve just committed a felony.

“Baby, sit down,” he says, already moving toward me like I’m about to faceplant.

“I’m fine,” I say, sitting anyway because I am a little sore. But still. “Not made of jelly. Nothing’s falling off.”

He doesn’t smile. He hasn’t smiled properly since he pulled me off that bed.

I watch him kneel beside me and pull a blanket over my legs, adjusting it like I might catch cold from the air. He’s quiet. His hands linger on my knees. His eyes flick up to mine—and they’re so full of tension it presses into my ribs.

“Eddie,” I say softly. “You’re doing it again.”

He blinks. “Doing what?”