She didn’t move.
Didn’t pull back into herself.
Didn’t reset.
Her shoulder stayed where it was, pressed lightly against my arm, her weight settling into the space between us like it had already been decided.
I shifted just enough to meet it, closing the distance by a fraction that didn’t change anything from the outside but changed everything in the way it held. She leaned into it without thinking, not checking, not correcting—just staying there, like she trusted it to stay.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel the need to test that.
Didn’t look for the moment it would slip.
Didn’t prepare for the adjustment.
I let it be what it was.
And stayed with her inside it.
Her coat was folded neatly over the arm of the chair beside her, one hand resting low over the curve of her stomach, fingers splayed like she’d placed them there intentionally.
Her thumb moved once, tracing a small, unconscious line over the fabric of her sweater, her attention fixed somewhereahead of us that had nothing to do with the television, the room, or anything outside of her own head.
I nudged her knee lightly with mine. “What are you thinking?”
She didn’t answer.
Her fingers pressed harder into her leg first, then eased, her breath pulling in slow like she was trying to line it up before letting it out. When she finally turned her head, it wasn’t all the way—just enough to catch me in her peripheral, eyes cutting over without giving me the full weight of them yet.
“Statistically?” One brow lifted, faint, automatic. “Or emotionally?”
My thumb dragged once along her thigh. “Dealer’s choice.”
She shifted, just enough that her knee stayed against mine this time, not accidental anymore. “Statistically,” she started, the words coming clean, practiced, “everything is fine. All indicators are within normal range. There is no reason to expect anything outside of?—”
“Bea.”
Her hand slid off her leg, hovering for a second like she didn’t know where to put it, before it settled low again, fingers spreading against her stomach without thinking. Her shoulders dropped a fraction.
“Emotionally…” She let out a breath that didn’t quite hold shape. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“Good.”
Her head snapped toward me, eyes narrowing. “That’s not reassuring.”
I didn’t move. “It’s not supposed to be.”
She let out a short breath through her nose, not quite a laugh, her head tipping back against the wall before shecaught herself and came forward again. “That’s a terrible pep talk.”
“It’s not a pep talk.”
She angled toward me more now, elbow brushing mine, something in her looking for friction, for something to push against. “Your version of reality is deeply unhelpful.”
“My version of reality is why you’re sitting here.”
She looked at me again, sharper this time, searching for it. “What makes you think I’m not spiraling?”
My gaze dropped, just for a second, to where her hand had stilled against her stomach. Then back to her. “Because you’re still here.”