Chapter 13 The weight of his world.

Chapter 13 The weight of his world.
(Samara p.o.v)

I'm running. Not fast enough. Laboured. Like my legs are pushing through water. Bare feet slap against wet earth, every breath tearing out of my chest like it is being pulled by hooks. My lungs burn. My legs scream. None of it matters.
The forest closes in around me.
Trees crowd together too tightly, their branches tangling overhead like they are trying to knit the sky shut. Leaves lash at my face. Twigs snag in my hair and sleeves, tugging hard enough to sting, like they recognize me. Like they are not surprised to see me here.
This isn't just any forest. It's the forest behind the house. The forest my nightmares always return to. The one that always feels like it is listening. Endless. Breathing.

"Josephine."

The voice drifts through the trees, stretching and warping as it moves. It is not male. Not female. It sounds like several mouths trying to speak through the same throat. The sound crawls along my spine and sinks into my bones.
I stumble but keep going, feet slipping in the mud.
"No," I gasp, though my voice feels thin and useless here. Like it does not belong to me anymore.

The ground dips suddenly and my foot catches on something unseen. I hit hard, the impact knocking the air clean out of my chest. My hands sink into cold soil that gives too easily beneath my weight. Mud coats my palms. Something slick slides between my fingers.
The roots move. They curl around my wrists and ankles, tightening with intent. Branches reach down from above, scraping my skin, dragging me backward inch by inch. I kick. I scream. I claw at the earth until my nails ache, but the forest only pulls harder, patient and unyielding.

"Josephine," the voice croons again, closer now. Everywhere. Nowhere.

"Come home, daughter."

The soil opens beneath me. Pulling me in.
It pours into my mouth, my nose, my ears. Heavy. Smothering. I am being swallowed alive, pressed down into the dark where nothing breathes. My arms are pinned. My chest burns. My vision dims at the edges.
I try to scream again, but there is no sound left in me.
I am almost gone.
Then—

Light.
Blinding, searing gold splits the darkness apart like a wound. The forest shrieks, a sound sharp enough to hurt, as the soil loosens its grip. Roots recoil. Branches snap back violently.
A hand closes around my wrist.
Strong an unyielding.
It pulls me free with a force that feels like gravity reversing. I gasp as air floods my lungs, coughing mud and dirt as the light overwhelms everything.
I cannot see a face.
The brightness is too intense, burning white and gold and unbearable.
But I see wings. Vast, golden wings.

The darkness screams as it dissolves into nothing, retreating like it never existed at all.
The hand does not let go.
The light surges—
And I wake up.
                     

I jolt upright in bed, breath tearing out of me like I have been underwater too long. My heart slams violently against my ribs, every beat echoing in my ears. The sheets are twisted around my legs. My hair is damp with sweat.
For a second, I do not know where I am.
The forest still clings to me. Damp. Heavy. 
The necklace at my throat warms faintly. Not urgent. Not alarmed. Just there. Steady. A reminder that I am still here.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand before my brain fully catches up. This part is automatic. It always is.
I need Derrick.

The couch is empty.
That stops me cold.
He is always there, propped half upright. Pretending he just happened to fall asleep like that. Seeing the empty cushions sends a cold ripple straight through me.
"Derrick," I whisper, already moving down the hall.
His door is closed but not latched. I push it open quietly.
He is face down on the bed, boots still on, jacket tossed carelessly over the chair. One arm is stretched out awkwardly, fingers curled into the sheets like he collapsed mid thought.
That is not normal.
I cross the room quickly and check his breathing. It's laboured and faint, but there. 
I drop to my knees beside the bed. My hands go straight to his boots, fingers working at the laces without thinking. They are stiff with dried rain and dirt. I tug them free one by one and slide the heavy boots off his feet, setting them neatly aside.

When I touch his forehead, my stomach drops.
He is burning up.
"Derrick," I murmur, brushing his hair back gently. "Hey."
He shifts slightly, a low sound escaping him somewhere between a groan and a breath. His skin is hot beneath my palm, feverish and wrong.
This is bad.
"Okay," I say quietly, mostly to myself. "Let us get this off you."
I grip the hem of his shirt and tug gently. He stirs again, rolling onto his back just enough to help me pull it over his head. His movements are sluggish, uncoordinated, like he is fighting through water.
I swallow hard.
He looks terrible.
Too pale. Jaw clenched even in sleep. Brow furrowed like he is still standing watch somewhere he cannot leave.
I hesitate for only a second. My eyes betraying me as they roam over his shirtless torso and the muscular frame this man hides so well under his clothes.

I climb onto the bed on the other side.
I am not brave enough to be alone right now. And I am definitely not brave enough to leave him like this.
I slide under the covers carefully, pressing myself against the far edge of the mattress while he remains sprawled on top of it. The heat coming off him is intense, almost overwhelming, but I do not move away.
My hand finds his wrist. His pulse is fast. Too fast.
"Please be okay," I whisper.
His lips move.
At first I think I imagined it. Then he murmurs again, the sound rough and broken.
"Aleira."
The name lands in my chest like a stone.
It is close enough to the one from the story. The healer. The one who loved the soldier and died. 
I tell myself it is just the fever. That he is delirious. That this does not mean anything at all.
Still, I inch a little closer, curling onto my side, letting my shoulder brush his arm. My breathing slowly starts to match the rise and fall of his chest, just like it always does.
The necklace stays warm.
I close my eyes and hold on to the rhythm of his heartbeat, hoping it is enough to carry us both through the night.

I wake up with something heavy pressing into my stomach.
For one disoriented second, my brain supplies several unhelpful explanations. Sleep paralysis. A nightmare sequel. Gravity finally giving up on me.
Then I breathe in.
Leather. Mint. Heat.
Derrick?

His head is resting on my stomach, cheek turned toward me, his goldens blonde hair a mess against my black tank top. One arm is wrapped around my waist, solid and immovable, like I might float away if he lets go.
I freeze. Not because I am scared.
Because I am suddenly very aware of everything.
His breathing is slow and even now, warm against my ribs. His forehead is still warm beneath my fingers when I carefully touch it, but not like last night. Not burning. Just warm. Human.
Relief hits me so hard it almost makes me dizzy.
"Good," I whisper, barely moving my lips.
I stay perfectly still, afraid that if I shift even an inch I will wake him and then we will both have to acknowledge this strange, quiet intimacy we have somehow wandered into.
His arm tightens slightly in his sleep.

I stare up at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster, listening to the house breathe around us. The necklace rests cool against my chest now, quiet like it is satisfied.
My hand hovers, then settles lightly in his hair.
I do not think too hard about that part.
I tell myself this is fine. That this is just comfort. That this is how things have always been, only rearranged slightly because of fevers and nightmares and exhaustion.
I ignore the way my heart keeps trying to beat out of my chest.
I ignore the fact that waking up like this feels dangerously close to right.
I pretend we are in our own little bubble, where the world outside doesn't matter and for once we can just be.
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Derrick p.o.v

I wake slowly.
Not the sharp snap of a soldier surfacing from half-sleep, but something softer. Warmer. There is a gentle pressure at my scalp, fingers moving through my hair with absentminded care. The touch is light, almost reverent, like whoever is doing it is afraid I might wake if they press too hard.
My body is heavy. Pleasantly so.
I do not open my eyes yet.
For a fleeting, dangerous second, I image it is Aleira.

The thought arrives fully formed, unguarded, born from habit and longing rather than reason. The warmth. The closeness. The simple intimacy of being held without expectation. My heart swells painfully at the illusion, happiness blooming before sense can catch up.
Then I breathe in.
The scent is wrong. Not herbs and smoke and rain.
Coconut and flowers. Magnolia flowers. Nostalgia ripples through me as memories of the magnolia tree she played under flash through my mind.
Samarra.

The realization settles gently. I do not startle. I do not pull away. I simply open my eyes, and lift my head. I turn to look at her.
She is beneath me, half propped against the pillows, her hand still tangled in my hair like she forgot to tell it to stop. Her eyes are open now, watching me with quiet curiosity and a softness that makes my chest ache.
I adjust my weight slightly, careful not to make her uncomfortable, my arm still around her waist, holding her there because my body has decided this is where she belongs.

"Morning," she says softly.
"Mouse? What are you doing here?" I answer, my voice rough but steady.
There is no panic. No sudden separation. Just a shared understanding that something tender happened here, and that neither of us is going to name it.
"I had a nightmare. And you were sick. I didn't want to leave you alone."

Her phone rings from her room.
She startles, fingers leaving my hair far too quickly, and slides out from under me with an awkwardness that almost makes me smile.
"I should get that," she says, already backing toward the door. 
Down the hall I hear her answer. Casey's voice carries, bright and insistent even through the walls. I catch fragments. Excited. Plans. A sleepover.

I sit up slowly, letting the cool air ground me as I listen.
Sam hesitates. I hear it in the pause.
Then she agrees.
Good.
When she comes back into the room, she looks torn between excitement and guilt, like she is leaving something unfinished behind her.
"Casey invited me over," she says. "For a sleepover."
"I think you should go," I reply immediately.
She blinks. "You do?"
"Yes," I say, and mean it. For her. And for reasons I do not voice.
She studies my face for a moment, then nods. "Okay."
She leaves the room, footsteps light as she heads back toward her own space.
The door closes softly.
I sit there for a long moment after she is gone, allowing myself the indulgence I deny at every other waking moment. I bring a hand to my hair where her fingers were moments ago, as if the warmth might still be there.
I held the most important thing in this world while I slept.
And for a few precious hours, the darkness did not dare come near us.
I stand slowly, resolve settling back into place like armor.

I need to get to holy ground. I need to get better. Even just a little.
Enough to stand. Enough to endure.
Enough to keep her safe a little while longer.