The water drummed softly down Sloane's back as she leaned against the tiled wall, eyes closed beneath the shower. The warm stream loosened her shoulder, but the dull ache still pulsed, reminding her that her body wasn't bulletproof. Not physically. Not otherwise, either.
Instead of a robe, she pulled on a soft cotton tank top and dark gray shorts. The cool air of the room still clung to her skin, but she didn't care. The long day had drained her. The extended training, the impact, the tension with Lennox—it all dragged at her limbs as she slowly lifted the edge of the duvet and slipped into bed.
The mattress dipped beneath her with a soft creak. The room was bathed in dim light, only faint orange streetlight slipping through the gaps in the blinds. Her tablet rested on the dresser, her notebook lay on the floor. Tonight, she didn't want to write. Didn't want to analyze. Just wanted to shut down. She lay on her side, careful of her aching shoulder, and tried to breathe evenly. The ceiling loomed dark and silent. On the other side of the wall, there was quiet—at first.
Lennox's room was always wrapped in silence, as if he needed distance even in sleep. But tonight... something was different. The first noise in the room was soft. Almost unnoticeable. A dull thud. Like something had fallen. Sloane opened her eyes.
Half a minute of silence. Then again: a sudden, sharp sound. From the wall. Like something—or someone—had slammed into a cabinet. Sloane sat up, the duvet sliding off her legs. She listened.
A ragged breath. Then a deep, guttural sigh. From the other side of the wall. Lennox.
She frowned. Maybe just a dream. Maybe he was tossing and turning. But then another sound cut through—a sharp, angry movement, like something had been knocked over—and she knew for sure: this wasn't just a dream. This was something more.
Tense, agitated sounds filtered through the otherwise quiet house. Lennox's voice wasn't clear, just low, rough fragments—like the dark muttering of someone half-asleep, haunted. His breathing was quick, sometimes catching.
Sloane sat for a while at the edge of her bed, barefoot, unmoving. Her palms rested on her thighs, eyes fixed on the floor. This man was running from something. And even in his sleep, he wasn't safe. She stayed like that a while longer, her hands pressing into her thighs, the slow pulse of the night surrounding her. The noises didn't fade. On the other side of the wall, Lennox panted, moved, muttered things too low to make out—but the weight of fear and rage clung to every sound.
Then came the crash. Not a human cry—but the impact of something metallic hitting the floor. Maybe a chair. Maybe a lamp thrown against the wall. It didn't matter. This was no longer normal.
She stood.
Barefoot and silent, she stepped out of her room. The hallway was dark, but the outlines of the doors were clearly drawn in the dim nightlight. Lennox's door was slightly ajar, and from inside, soft, muffled panting seeped out. Like the caged sound of a wounded animal, hidden from the world, cradled only by the dark.
Sloane walked in without hesitation. The room was dim. On the bed, Lennox lay curled, one arm wedged under the pillow, the other clutching the blanket. His body trembled as if he were fighting something. His muscles were taut, his forehead slick with sweat. Harsh, broken breaths tore from his mouth, and from time to time he mumbled blurred words.
"Don't... don't go... back... don't... don't touch me..." His voice was cracked, rising from deep within. And heartbreakingly familiar. Sloane stepped toward him. She didn't think. Didn't calculate.
"Lennox," she said gently—but not in a whisper. "Lennox, wake up. Do you hear me?"
He didn't respond. His arm swung into the air, as if trying to push something away. His face tensed.
"Lennox, wake up," she repeated more firmly now, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Mistake.
It happened too fast to register: Lennox sprang from the bed, seized her wrist, and the next moment, he was on his feet, eyes feral. The motion lasted only a second—but it was enough to fill the room with wild tension.
"What the hell are you doing?!" he shouted, his voice exploding in the quiet, echoing off the walls. "What the hell are you doing in my room, you crazy woman?!"
Sloane didn't back away. But her heart skipped a beat.
"I heard you. You were having a nightmare. You weren't yourself."
"So what?!" Lennox stepped back, but his eyes still burned. "You think you can go wherever you want just because you 'took responsibility' for me? You're not my mother! You're not my shrink! Who the hell do you think you are, sneaking in here in the middle of the night like some—"
"Like someone who doesn't want you smashing your head open in your sleep?!" Sloane snapped, her voice sharp for the first time. "I heard you thrashing, gasping for air, slamming into the wall! I wasn't trying to save you, Lennox. I just didn't want you waking up with a concussion."
Lennox's fists clenched, his chest rose and fell. He was fully awake now, sweating, agitated, panting.
"I didn't ask you to watch me!" he shouted. "I don't want you here! I don't want you to see me like this! Get the hell out, Quinn! Now!"
Sloane nodded silently. She didn't plead. Didn't explain. Just turned around. But as she stepped out, Lennox's gaze dropped—unintentionally—and that's when he saw it. She was limping. Barely putting weight on one leg. Her steps were stiff—not theatrical, but painfully familiar. Her left hand clutched her shoulder. That shoulder. The one he'd hit earlier. Something twisted in his chest. Not guilt. A strange, unwanted realization: she could be hurt, too.
The door closed. Not with a slam. Just a soft click.
The room sank into silence again. But Lennox didn't lie back down. He just stood there. Between the crumpled sheets, the memories pressed into his pillow, and his own ragged breathing. And for the first time in his life, it wasn't his demons that disturbed the night.
It was the fact that someone had seen them.
Those who've sunk into darkness recognize when someone else is drowning there too.
Sloane walked slowly, measuredly down the hallway, but inside, every step felt like she was walking over glass shards. She wasn't loud. She didn't slam the door behind her. Not even her sobs could be heard—because she didn't sob. She just sat on the edge of the bed, and the tears fell silently.
The door clicked shut behind her, but the previous scene still echoed in her mind.
"Get the hell out, Quinn! Now!"
She'd heard worse words. She'd heard humiliation, rejection, raw brutality—whether in professional settings or from a past where people often used their voices like weapons. But this... this was different.
It hurt because she hadn't expected it to hurt.
She tore off her jacket and flung it over the chair. The ache in her shoulder still pulsed from the earlier blow, and as she sat, a deeper pain shot through her left leg. She hadn't shown it in front of Lennox—and hadn't wanted to—but now, behind the door, for a moment, she lowered her guard. Alone.
She bent down, cupping her ankle in both hands. A slow, deliberate movement. She rested her forehead on her thigh and began to breathe—quietly, unevenly. The tears didn't explode. Nothing stormed out of her. They just... came. Like a spring held closed too long. One drop after another, slipping down her face, chin, then onto her knee. Not from the pain. Not from the hit. But from the injustice.
Because she had tried to do something. To stop something. To reach out to a man who was battling himself. And in return, she got the one thing she had been running from her whole life: rejection. Anger. Brutal, annihilating walls.
Just like then.
A memory flickered—an old dance studio. Her own reflection in the mirror, tearful eyes, a stiff, post-surgery knee. The moment the doctor said, "The risk would be too great to return." And her instructor, who never called her back to the troupe. You're not stable enough. Not worth the risk. That feeling had been the same.
She was cast out of a dream. And now, of a person.
Sloane exhaled. She wiped her tears—first the right eye, then the left. Precise. Methodical. As if it gave her control over what was churning inside.
She stood, felt the tension in her knee again. She massaged her shoulder with practiced ease, walked to the mirror. Stopped.
Her green eyes stared back, rimmed with red. Her hair was a bit messy. The gray tank top wrinkled at the shoulder. Not her best state. But that wasn't what bothered her.
It was her expression.
The question in her own eyes.
Is this worth it?
The answer came quietly. First as a thought. Then aloud.
"Yes. It is."
Because Lennox didn't know what he was doing. He didn't know how to let go. He never learned how to trust. And Sloane... she knew exactly what it felt like when no one believed in you—not even yourself.
She wasn't going to leave. She wasn't walking away. Not even if Lennox kept biting back. Because she knew what it felt like to fall, and have no one reach out.
Sloane slowly returned to bed. Lay down, rolled onto her back, arms folded over her chest the way she did as a child when home alone and the world closed in.
The pain hadn't gone. Neither had the humiliation. But now, it had a purpose.
And as she slowly closed her eyes, a single, stubborn thought took root deep in her soul:
You're going to heal, Lennox Graves—even if you still think you don't want to.