Page 82 of Freestyle
I glance at the bag in the corner. Notes tucked inside. The pony. The signature.
“A.”
Gray’s jaw was steel when he found them. Mine cracked.
And yet she still looked us in the eye and said“I’m fine.”
She doesn’t know she talks in her sleep. Not words, just small sounds. The kind people make when they’re trying not to drown.
I want to wake her, to tell her it’s okay now.
But I won’t.
Not yet.
Because sometimes, staying up all night is the only way to prove that someone else is still watching the shadows, still guarding the cracks.
Still here.
By morning, I’m running on fumes and caffeine I don’t drink, still propped against the wall like I belong there. My back is wrecked, my legs are numb, my brain’s playing static.
If it costs me a hundred more nights like this? I’ll pay it without blinking.
Rowyn stirs, slow and uncertain, like someone surfacing from deep water. Her fingers curl tighter around the sheet, dragging it up over her chest like armor she’s only just remembered she needs.
She blinks at me, still half-asleep, still raw.
“Hey,” I say softly. Voice hoarse from too much silence.
She blinks again. “You’re... still up?”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Didn’t want the shadows getting any ideas.”
A faint laugh catches in her throat, like she doesn’t trust herself to smile.
She doesn’t ask why, she doesn’t have to. She just studies me for a moment longer, eyes soft, cautious.
Then she whispers, “You didn’t have to do that.”
I brush her cheek with the pad of my thumb.
“Didn’t have to protect you?”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. I’m not weak.”
I letout a soft breath, trying not to sound annoyed.
“I’m not calling you weak, Rowyn. You’re the strongest person I know. You’ve been holding all this in. The notes, the pony, all of it,” I murmur quietly, not wanting to wake Gray. I like this one on one talk with her, not that it wouldn’t be any less significant with him awake.
“You found them?” She freezes, and I can see her pulse fluttering like wings in her throat.
“Now you think I’m that helpless little girl from all those years ago that still needs protection, and I hate it. I’m not that fragile, Nix. I can take care of myself. I’vebeentaking care of myself.”
“But you don’t have to,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “I want to take care of you, Rowyn. We want to.”
She doesn’t flinch under my touch, but her eyes flick toward the closed door like the rest of the world might come rushing in if we’re too loud, or too honest.
Her voice is barely there. “Then why do you look at me like I’m made of glass?”
