Page 75 of When Death Whispers

Hudson crouches outside the shower.

“Parker.” His voice is soft. Careful. Barely a breath above the sound of water sliding down the drain.

I flinch. Curl tighter.

“You’re not okay.”

There’s no judgment in his voice. No anger. Just a quiet truth that slices deeper than any accusation.

He doesn’t reach for me, doesn’t try to touch me. He’s just… there. Kneeling on the cold tile floor while I shatter.

“Tell me what to do,” he says. “Do you want me to turn the water off? Do you want me to leave?”

My voice is hoarse, barely there, but sure. “No.” Then louder, cracked open. “No—don’t leave.”

A beat of silence.

Then he says, “Okay.”

I hear him shift. Watch his hand reach in slowly, carefully, past me to turn the water off. The stream cuts off, leaving behind a silence so thick it feels like it might crush me.

I shiver. My body aches. My heart hurts worse.

“I’ve got you, Parker,” Hudson says gently. “You’re here. You’re safe. Just breathe.”

“I can’t.” The response breaks out of me, fragile and ashamed.

“Yes, you can,” he murmurs. “Just do it with me, okay?”

He inhales—slow and even. Loud enough for me to follow. The same way he had at the bakery when both our lives became intertwined.

I try. My lungs stutter.

The first breath barely makes it. The second is a little better.

“Again,” he says, steady as stone.

We breathe together.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

And the panic eases.

Not gone. But no longer clawing.

I still don’t look at him. I can’t. But I can imagine the way he’s watching me—eyes full of worry.

“You’re not alone,” he whispers. “Not while I’m here.”

Another tear slips down my cheek because I want to believe that. And part of me does. But another part—deeper, older, worn raw—still whispers all the things I’ve always feared:

I’m too much. Too far gone. Too broken to love.

So I don’t thank him. I don’t apologize.

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