The loft was silent except for the sound of the rain tapping against the large windows. The storm outside mirrored the one inside her chest—a swirling, relentless guilt that she couldn’t seem to shake.

Derek sat on the edge of the couch, shirtless, his skin bruised and battered from the fight with the Alphas. The deep gash along his side was still angry and red, but at least it had stopped bleeding. He was alive. He was alive.

She should be relieved.

Instead, she could barely breathe.

Her hands worked mechanically, wrapping fresh bandages around his torso, careful not to press too hard even though she knew he could take it. She avoided his gaze, focusing only on the task at hand.

If she looked at him, she might cry.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Deucalion wasn’t supposed to come here. This wasn’t supposed to be Derek’s fight. It was hers.

She bit the inside of her cheek as she secured the last bandage, swallowing the lump in her throat. It was fine. She was fine. She just had to hold it together for a little while longer.

"All done," she murmured, reaching for the scattered supplies to clean up.

But before she could stand, Derek’s hands caught her wrists, stopping her.

"Hey." His voice was rough, exhausted, but firm. "Look at me."

She shook her head, pulling her hands away. "I need to clean this up—"

Derek didn’t let her go. Instead, with surprising strength for someone so injured, he pulled her onto his lap.

A small gasp left her lips as she found herself straddling his thighs, her hands pressed against his bare shoulders for balance. The warmth of his skin, the solidness of him, made her feel even more fragile.

"Derek—"

"It wasn’t your fault."

Her breath hitched. "He came here for me. If I had just left, if I—"

"You think running would have changed anything?" His fingers brushed her cheek, tilting her head so she had no choice but to meet his eyes. "You think Deucalion wouldn’t have found you no matter where you went?"