He's here. That's enough. For now.
The doctor had been clear.
"One more day of rest. Just to monitor the fever. After that, she can go home—provided she's not alone."
Alex didn't hesitate.
"She'll stay at Elias's. Just two nights."
No one argued.
Not even Liana.
She didn't speak much during discharge.
Just nodded when told to, walked slowly to the truck, and leaned her head against the window on the ride back.
She looked smaller than usual.
More than sick.
Drained.
Almost like being inside her own body was too much.
Alex helped her out of the truck with a short, "Take care of her, Wolfe," and handed over a small duffel bag she'd packed earlier. Then drove off.
Elias carried the bag inside. Quietly. Carefully.
She followed.
Slow steps. Blank face.
Her fingers curled loosely around the necklace he gave her years ago—still worn.
Still there.
They didn't speak much that first night.
The house was quiet, but it didn't feel cold.
Just... muted.
Like both of them were holding their breath.
It was late.
The bedroom was dim, lit only by the hallway light bleeding through the open door.
Liana lay curled under the blanket, her breath still ragged with fever.
Elias sat nearby, flipping the towel in his hand before placing it gently against her forehead.
She didn't flinch.
Her eyes opened slightly. Glazed. Unfocused.
"I'll get you some water," he murmured.
Her hand caught his sleeve.
Small. Cold. Shaky.
He froze.
Didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Then slowly, carefully, turned back toward her.
"Elias…" she whispered.
He looked down.
Her hand still clutched his sleeve, barely holding on.
"I'll be right here," he said.
She blinked once.
Then again.
"Don't go."
Her voice was barely audible.
His throat tightened.
He reached out, adjusted the damp cloth, brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said.
Her lips twitched. Not a smile—something softer.
Relief, maybe.
She exhaled. Fell back asleep.
He stayed.
Later, he sat on the bed.
There was a chair nearby. He could've used it.
But he didn't.
She shifted once, half-turning in her sleep, and her head found his leg like it was instinct.
His whole body stiffened.
She pressed her face into the blanket, just enough to breathe, and murmured something unintelligible.
He should've moved.
He should've untangled himself gently and stepped away.
But he didn't.
Because it was warm.
And because she was here.
And because part of him—every broken, lonely, flawed part—needed to be near her.
His hand hovered.
Just inches above her shoulder.
He didn't touch her.
Not quite.
Just let it hover there.
Close enough to feel her warmth.
Far enough to pretend he hadn't crossed a line.
His chest ached with how much he wanted.
How much he couldn't have.
How much he'd always known that one day, she'd grow beyond him.
And he'd be left watching.
"You'll be okay," he whispered to the dark.
His voice cracked a little.
"I'm here."
She didn't stir.
But the way she breathed—slower, deeper—told him she heard.
Or maybe just felt it.
Morning came slowly.
He'd barely slept.
Still in the same clothes, still sitting in the same spot.
When she stirred, sunlight crept over the edge of the windowsill.
She blinked.
Looked up at him.
"You're still here…" she said, voice raspy.
He tried to smile.
"Of course."
She didn't ask why.
And he didn't say—
Because I was afraid you'd leave again.
Because I needed to know you were real.
Instead, he reached for the water cup and held it steady.
She drank.
Then leaned back, eyes already closing again.
His hand lingered on the cup longer than necessary.
Then pulled away.
For now.
This was enough.