When I push it open, she’s there. A slow exhale slips from my lungs, easing in my chest before I can stop it.

She’s curled up on my bed, legs tucked under her, flipping through a book she must’ve grabbed from the shelf. My shirt hangs loose on her, my sweatpants pooling around her ankles. She looks impossibly small in them, swallowed by fabric that was never meant for her.

But fuck if I don’t like it.

She glances up when she hears me, her eyes wary at first, like she half-expected me to be someone else. Like she still hasn’t fully let herself believe she’s safe.

“You’re back,” she murmurs.

I nod, leaning against the doorframe. “And you’re still here.”

She shrugs, shifting against the pillows. “Figured I’d stay at least long enough to finish this chapter.”

I huff out something that might be amusement, stepping inside. “Good book?”

Her lips twitch like she wants to smile but doesn’t let herself. “You tell me—I mean, it’s yours.”

“It’s good.” I toe off my boots. “How are you feeling?”

She shrugs, setting the book aside. “Fine.”

I raise a brow.

She sighs. “Tired. Nauseous. Existing.”

“That’s better.”

She smirks, but then her face shifts—brows knitting, lips parting slightly like something’s just hit her. Soon enough, she pushes off the bed, rushing past me before I even process what’s happening.

It doesn’t take me long to guess where she’s going. Bathroom.

Fuck.

I follow her in an instant, reaching the doorway just as she drops to her knees in front of the toilet.

“Blythe—”

She waves a weak hand at me. “Don’t look at me. This is humiliating.”

I ignore that and crouch beside her, rubbing a slow circle on her back, not caring if she protests. She doesn’t, though. Just leans forward, hands braced on the porcelain, as another wave overtakes her.

I wait. Stay right there, close but not overbearing, until she finally sags against the cool surface, breathing shallowly.

When she leans back against the cool porcelain, drained and pale, I reach for a washcloth, run it under cold water, and crouch beside her.

She doesn’t flinch when I dab it against her skin, doesn’t protest when I wipe the sheen of sweat from her forehead. She just breathes, slow and shaky, her lips parting like she wants to say something but isn’t sure how.

Her eyes meet mine—open, searching. I don’t look away.

Suddenly, something shifts between us.

I don’t know what triggered it—the way she tilts her head, the quiet in the room settling around us, or maybe just the fact that she’s here, wrapped up in my clothes like she belongs in them. But it’s there.

Thick. Electric.