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I don’t move right away.

The bedroom door closes behind her with a soft click, and I simply stand there… in her living room, staring at the space where she just was.

She told me to leave.

And I should.

I should take the hint. Pack my shit, walk out that door, and pretend I never stepped into her world.

But I don’t. I can’t.

I sink onto the edge of the couch instead, elbows on my knees, hands threaded behind my neck as I stare down at the hardwood floor like it might have the answers I don’t.

My heart’s still hammering, loud in my ears, like my body’s trying to catch up to a moment that’s already passed.

Fuck.

I don’t even know what just happened.

One minute I was stepping onto the porch to grab the groceries—and the next, something yanked me under like a fucking riptide.

Darkness. Cold. Desolate.

And then that forest again. Her forest. The Evergloom, I think she called it.

And she was there. Naked. Bruised. In some beast’s arms.

And me? I was helpless. Again. Just a fucking bystander in a nightmare I didn’t understand.

I didn’t see what he did to her, but I saw enough. I saw her body. I saw the scratches. I saw the bruises. I saw the cum.

I saw her panting and shaking and I assumed the worst.

And even now, even knowing she asked me to leave— begged me to—I still want to find that monster and rip him to fucking pieces.

Not because I think Parker’s fragile.

Not because I think she’s broken or dirty or ruined.

But because I’ve never seen someone look so torn between hating themselves and needing to be touched again.

And that kills me.

It fucking kills me.

Because I want to be the one she comes undone with. I want to be the one who brings her back from the edge, not the reason she goes over it. I want to be someone she reaches for—not someone she pushes away because she thinks I won’t survive it.

Because the truth is—I don’t think I can survive without her anymore.

I scrub a hand down my face, dragging in a sharp breath that does nothing to calm me.

God, I fucked this up.

I let my emotions talk before my brain had time to catch up. Let my anger speak louder than my compassion. And she thinks I’m ashamed of her now. She thinks I looked at her and saw something broken.

But that’s not it. That’s not it at all.

What I saw was someone drowning in guilt for something she didn’t ask for.

Someone bleeding internally while trying to hold everyone else together.

Someone who keeps giving her body and her breath and her strength, just to survive one more day, one more night.

And I love her for that.

Even if she never lets me say it.

Even if she never wants to hear it.