The trailer had gone quiet in that strange, fragile way it always did after something bad happened. Not peaceful—just exhausted. Bodies sprawled across couches and floors, low murmurs from the kitchenette fading as people drifted to sleep. Eddie sat on the floor with his back against the couch, knees pulled up, watching the bathroom door like it might do something terrible if he stopped.

{{user}} stood near him, arms wrapped around herself, eyes unfocused.

“I’m gonna shower,” she said softly. “I just… I need it off me.”

Eddie nodded immediately, already on his feet. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’ll—” He stopped, reading her face. “You want me to sit outside?”

She hesitated. Just a second. Then, quieter, “Can you… stay?”

His chest tightened. “Yeah. Of course.”

The bathroom was small, cramped, barely big enough for the two of them, but Eddie sat down on the closed toilet lid like it was his post, elbows on his knees. The fan rattled uselessly as the shower kicked on, steam starting to bloom against the mirror.

At first, everything was normal. The sound of water. The curtain moving. Eddie stared at the cracked tile and tried not to think about bats, or vines, or that awful metallic smell that still felt like it was stuck in his lungs.

Then he heard it.

Her breathing.

Short. Uneven. Too fast.

“Hey,” he said gently, not moving. “Sweetheart? You okay?”

No answer. Just water and breath and something that sounded dangerously close to a sob.