Page 47 of Enzo

“I thought you were looking out for him,” Jamie snapped as his gaze was locked onto every shadow and darkened corner as if he could see through them. If Rio was passion, Jamie was precision.

And me?

All I wanted was Robbie.

Let them handle whoever the hell else was in here—I needed to find him.

“Robbie!” My voice came out raw, desperate. “Fuck! Robbie!?”

By unspoken agreement, we all went quiet, listening, and then I heard it—a muffled whimper, my name barely more than a breath, but enough to have my stomach twisting into knots.

I moved toward the sound, my heart pounding in my throat, the others shadowing me. I scanned the space, my breath sharp, pulse hammering, eyes darting between the workbenches, the dark corners, and shadows. Someone flicked on all the internal lights, and I heard another sound—a sharp inhale. And then I saw him.

Robbie was tucked under a workbench, curled into the smallest space possible, his back pressed to the wall, knuckles white around a wrench. His entire body shook, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. He looked so small, so damn terrified, and something in my chest cracked wide open.

“Outside,” Jamie said to Rio, and then sprinted past me.

“Robbie,” I breathed, dropping to one knee, hands up in surrender, slow, careful movements like I was approaching a wounded animal. “It’s just us. You’re safe. I swear.”

He was chanting something soft and low, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. It sounded like a name.

John, John, John…

His eyes flicked to mine, wide and unfocused, his entire body rigid with fear. He was lost, drowning in whatever nightmare had dragged him under.

“It’s okay, Robbie,” I said, softer now but firm. “We’re here now.”

I didn’t know if he could hear me, but I wouldn’t stop trying. Not until I got him back.

I spoke again, lower this time, voice steady as my pulse thundered. “Logan, Jamie, and Rio are here too. They cleared the building. It’s just us now, Robbie. You’re safe.”

I saw the briefest flicker of awareness in his eyes, but he was still locked in fear, curled in too tightly.

Behind me, I caught the murmur of Jamie and Rio returned, talking low with Logan, confirming that whoever had been here was gone. But none of that mattered to me right now. The only thing I could focus on was Robbie.

I swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in my throat. “Can I come under there with you?” I asked, although I knew there was no way I’d fit. But if I could wedge part of myself in, get close enough to reach him, to remind him I was here?—

He didn’t answer, but his breathing hitched as though the idea of someone near him wasn’t as terrifying as whatever had driven him under there in the first place. I took that as a yes and, with no real plan, awkwardly forced my way under the bench. I was twice Robbie’s size and it felt impossible to fit in the tiny space he’d folded himself into. But somehow, I managed. My back scraped the underside of the bench, my shoulder wedging against a toolbox, but I didn’t care. I needed to be close to him.

There wasn’t much room between us, close enough he could feel I was here, solid and real. I kept my hands loose, my posture open, making sure he knew I wouldn’t touch him unless he wanted me to. His breath was still coming too fast, too shallow, his knuckles white where he gripped the wrench as if it were the only thing anchoring him.

“You did good, Robbie,” I murmured, keeping my voice soft and steady. “You hit the alarm; you got yourself safe. We’re here now. No one’s gonna hurt you.”

His eyes flickered, another breath hitching, and I could see when the words started to reach him. He wasn’t all the way back yet, but he was listening. That was enough. That was everything. I kept talking, my voice a steady murmur, filling the space between us with words that didn’t have to make sense, something to keep him tethered. I rambled about nothing special, talking nonsense, but it didn’t matter—it was about the sound of my voice, the connection.

And then I played my card. “Frodo is the hero,” I whispered, letting the sentence hang, pausing long enough for him to catch up, focus, and ground himself in something familiar.

“No. Sam,” he whispered, voice so faint I almost missed it, but it was there. A thread of recognition, something real.

I nodded. “Frodo,” I half teased.

Robbie swallowed hard, blinking at me, still shaking. “Sam’s the hero,” he murmured. His hand relaxed on the wrench, then, with a shaky exhale, he laced our fingers together, holding on like I was the only solid thing left in his world. His skin was cold, unsteady, but he didn’t let go.

“He was here.”

“Who, Robbie? Who was here?”

“John. He was here. I can’t, Enzo,” he murmured, voice raw and exhausted, little more than a whisper. His breath shuddered, and I felt every ounce of weight behind those words. “No,” he keened, his eyes glassy.

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