Page 73 of Carrick
“I’m not here to comfort you.”
I turned toward him then, slowly, eyes narrowed, chest still heaving from a storm that hadn’t passed. “Then why are you here?”
His expression didn’t shift. He didn’t flinch. “Because I’m not going to let you break apart alone.”
I hated how that hit. Hated how it slid under my skin with quiet precision and made everything ache worse. I turned away from him and crossed the room, pacing toward the far wall like I could burn the fury out of my bloodstream through sheer momentum.
“I hate this,” I said through gritted teeth. “I hate waiting. I hate that no one’s doing anything. I hate thatIcan’t do anything.”
He stayed behind me, quiet as ever, just listening. He didn’t interrupt, or fill the space with answers he didn’t have.
“I know.”
“No. You don’t,” I snapped, spinning on him, heat flushing beneath my skin. “You have options. Power. Authority. All of you do. I’m just the sister. The liability.”
Carrick’s jaw tightened. “That’s not how we see you. That’s not howIsee you.”
“Well, it’s how you treat me.”
The words came out louder than I expected, sharp and hard enough to make the room feel smaller. I saw the way his mouth opened slightly, like he was about to argue. But he didn’t. He hesitated, took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was steadier.
“I know this is tearing you up. I know it doesn’t look like we’re doing enough. But this kind of work—getting someone out alive—it’s slow. Quiet. Awful.”
His words weren’t defensive. They were honest. But it didn’t make them easier to hear.
“And I’m just supposed to be okay with that?” My voice was thinner now. Strained. Worn down.
“No.” He stepped closer, carefully, his tone softening without losing strength. “You’re allowed to be furious. You’re allowed to hate it.”
I looked away, jaw clenched, eyes burning. I didn’t want to feel seen. I wanted to feel like the fury still had somewhere to go.
“Just don’t push me away when I’m standing beside you,” he said, quieter now. Not uncertain—but vulnerable. Like he was offering something he didn’t hand out often.
I turned to him, vision swimming again. “What am I supposed to do, Carrick?”
“Let me stay,” he answered, no hesitation, no softness—just steady truth.
I shook my head, wiping at my face with an unsteady hand. “I don’t need protection.”
“I’m not offering protection,” he said, firmer this time. Grounded. “I’m offering presence.”
And somehow, that undid me more than anything else. Because it wasn’t a solution. Not a fix or a promise. Just a choice. A hand held out, not to pull me up—but to sit with me in the wreckage. My breath caught, splintering in my throat. I stared at him, trying to swallow around the burn rising in my chest.
“I don’t want you to see me like this,” I whispered, the words out before I could stop them.
He didn’t hesitate. “I already have.”
It landed like only truth can—quiet, unflinching, without apology. No pity. No performance. Just certainty. And maybe that was what I needed most. Not rescue. Not reassurance. Just someone who wouldn’t look away. Someone who saw every raw edge and didn’t recoil.
I turned again, pressing my forehead to the wall, needing something solid—something that wouldn’t collapse beneath the weight. My breath caught in fits, shallow and uneven, a sob curling deep in my chest and lodging somewhere just beneath my ribs. I bit down hard, swallowing it like it might kill me to let it out.
Carrick didn’t speak. Didn’t cross the space between us. Didn’t try to fix what couldn’t be fixed. He just stood there—breathing slow and steady, like a metronome anchoring me back to reality. Unshaken. Present. A still point in the middle of my unraveling.
I don’t know how long I stayed like that—head bowed, back turned, fury knotted beneath grief—but eventually, the storm dulled. Not calmed. Not cleaned up. Just quieted enough for me to breathe through it. To peel myself off the wall and look at him again.
“I’m sorry,” I said, the words thin and frayed.
He shook his head, slow and certain. “Don’t be.”
