Sage

The sun dips lower, casting long shadows across the camp as I find Mara near the edge of the garden plot she’s been tending. The rows of soil are neat, organized, and methodical—everything my thoughts aren’t right now.

Mara looks up as I approach, brushing dirt off her hands. Her expression softens when she sees my face. “You look like you’ve been through the wringer,” she says, her voice laced with sympathy.

I let out a dry laugh, sinking onto the ground next to her. “That’s putting it mildly.”

She sits back on her heels, watching me closely. “Talk to me.”

I glance toward the treeline, the memory of the Accord’s camp still too fresh. “It’s worse than I thought,” I admit. “The women there… they barely look at anyone, Mara. They keep their heads down, their shoulders hunched. It’s like the weight of the camp is crushing them, and they’re just trying to survive without drawing attention.”

Mara’s brows knit together, and she doesn’t say anything for a moment. “You’ve seen hard things before,” she says quietly. “But this seems to have hit you differently.”

I nod, wrapping my arms around my knees. “It’s not just seeing it—it’s knowing it could’ve been me. Or you. If things had been just a little different, if we hadn’t found this camp…” My voice wavers, and I hate the way it makes me feel exposed. “I keep thinking about how close we all are to losing what little freedom we have. And it’s not enough to just survive. I want to do more, but I don’t know how.”

Mara places a hand on my arm, her touch grounding. “You’ve already done more than most people would, Sage. Don’t discount that.”

“But it’s not enough,” I snap, the frustration bubbling up again. “Those women are still there, stuck in that hellhole, and I had to walk away knowing I couldn’t save them. Knowing I can’t save everyone.”

Mara’s eyes soften, but there’s a firmness to her voice when she speaks. “You can’t save everyone, Sage. And you’re going to tear yourself apart if you keep trying to.”

Her words sting, but I know she’s right. I drop my gaze to the dirt, my fingers picking at a loose thread on my sleeve. “It’s not just the camp that’s been weighing on me,” I admit. “It’s Dash, too.”

Mara tilts her head, her expression curious but cautious. “What happened?”

I let out a sharp breath, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “He’s driving me crazy, Mara. He’s so damn protective, hovering over me like I’m some fragile thing that’s going to break if he doesn’t shield me from everything. It’s suffocating. And we keep fighting about it, but it’s like we’re stuck in this loop that we can’t get out of.”

Mara leans back, studying me for a long moment. “I’m going to say something, and you’re not going to like it.”

I glance at her warily. “That’s never stopped you before.”

She smirks faintly, but her tone is serious when she speaks. “Dash is protective because he loves you, Sage.”

I flinch, the word hitting me like a jolt. “He doesn’t—” I start, but the words catch in my throat.

Mara raises an eyebrow. “He doesn’t what? Love you? Are you seriously going to stand there and tell me that man doesn’t look at you like you’re the only thing holding his world together?”

Her words leave me speechless. My chest tightens, my heart racing, and I suddenly feel like I’m back in the Accord camp, unable to breathe.

Mara softens, her tone gentler. “He might not have said it yet, Sage, but it’s there. You know it. You’re just too wrapped up in your own head to let yourself feel it.”

I exhale shakily, my arms wrapping around my knees. “I know he’s afraid of losing me,” I admit, my voice quiet. “He’s made that clear enough. But this… what if it’s too much? What if his need to protect me smothers us both?”

Mara tilts her head, watching me closely. “You’re independent, strong, and you don’t want anyone thinking you can’t handle yourself. I get that. But sometimes, you’re so determined to prove that you don’t need anyone that you end up pushing people away—people who are just trying to care for you.”

Her words sting, but they’re true. I stare down at the dirt, my fingers digging into the loose soil. “I’m not trying to push him away,” I say quietly. “I just… I need him to trust me.”

“And he does,” Mara says firmly. “But trust isn’t the same as stepping back completely. Look, Dash has been through hell just like the rest of us, and his way of dealing with that is to protect what he cares about. That’s not a flaw—it’s a coping mechanism. Just like your need for independence is yours.”

I close my eyes, letting her words sink in. She’s not wrong. I’ve been so focused on proving that I can stand on my own that I haven’t stopped to consider how that might look to Dash.

“So what am I supposed to do?” I ask, my voice small.

Mara’s hand squeezes mine. “You talk to him. Not just about what you want from him, but about what you’re afraid of, too. And you let him talk about what he’s afraid of—because he’s clearly carrying a lot more than just worry about you. This isn’t just about fixing the argument—it’s about understanding each other.”

I nod slowly, the knot in my chest loosening just a fraction. “It’s easier said than done.”

“Most things worth doing are,” Mara says with a faint smile. “But you and Dash—you’re worth it. And if anyone can figure this out, it’s the two of you.”

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I look at her, the weight of her words settling heavily in my chest. She’s right, even if I don’t want to admit it. Dash and I have to figure this out—because the alternative is letting the distance between us grow until there’s nothing left to salvage.

“Thanks, Mara,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. I smile and look up at her with a smile, “Hey, you should be a therapist in the camp as well. You’re good at this.”

She laughs and pats my hand, her smile soft. “That’s an interesting idea.” She makes a shooing gesture. “Now, go. I’ve got dirt to move, and you’ve got a brooding husband to talk to.”

Her teasing tone earns a small smile from me, and as I stand, I feel a flicker of hope. It’s not much, but it’s a start. And right now, that’s enough.

Dash

The familiar creak of the lean-to’s wooden frame greets us as we step inside, but the sound doesn’t carry the same sense of relief it usually does. Sage walks in first, her shoulders tight with exhaustion, her steps deliberate. I close the door behind us, pausing for a moment to take her in.

She moves toward the bed, her fingers brushing against the blanket like she’s grounding herself. She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t say anything, and the silence stretches between us, heavy and uncomfortable.

I let out a slow breath. “You’ve been quiet.”

Sage glances over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. “Just tired,” she says, but the tone in her voice tells me it’s more than that.

I move closer, leaning against the edge of the table. “We need to talk about what happened in the Accord camp.”

Her lips press into a thin line as she sits down on the bed. “Which part?”

“All of it,” I say evenly. “Reeves. Alicia’s camp. Us.”

She exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair. “I don’t even know where to start, Dash. Everything about that place was suffocating, and—” She stops herself, shaking her head.

I take a seat next to her, keeping my voice calm. “Then start with what’s bothering you the most.”

Her gaze flicks to mine, sharp and searching. “You, Dash. You’re what’s bothering me.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, but I force myself to stay steady. “Alright,” I say quietly. “What about me?”

She gestures vaguely, frustration seeping into her voice. “The way you hovered the entire time. The way you kept stepping in, like I couldn’t handle myself. You don’t trust me, Dash.”

“That’s not true,” I say, my tone firm but measured. “I do trust you, Sage. But trusting you doesn’t mean ignoring the fact that we were surrounded by danger at every turn.”

Her jaw tightens, and she looks away. “I don’t need you to protect me from everything.”

“And I don’t need you to act like I’m the enemy for trying,” I fire back, my frustration slipping through.

The room goes silent again, the weight of our argument settling between us like a stone.

“You’re not the enemy,” she says finally, her voice quieter now. “But sometimes, it feels like you don’t see me. Like you see everything that could hurt me, but not me.”

I lean forward, my elbows resting on my knees. “I see you, Sage. I see how strong you are, how capable. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to keep you safe. It’s not about thinking you’re weak—it’s about the fact that I can’t lose you.”

Her eyes soften, but there’s still a guardedness there. “You’re afraid of losing me, and I get that. I do. But you can’t let that fear control everything, Dash. It’s not fair to either of us.”

I nod slowly, the weight of her words sinking in. “You’re right. I’ve been holding on too tightly. But Sage, you’re not exactly innocent in this either.”

Her brow furrows, and I see the flash of defensiveness in her expression. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you push me away every time I try to protect you. Like it’s some kind of flaw,” I say, my voice steady but firm. “I’m not trying to smother you, Sage. I’m trying to stand beside you. But you keep acting like needing anyone is a weakness, and it’s not.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but then she stops, her lips pressing together. Her silence speaks volumes.

I stand, moving to sit beside her on the cot. “We’ve both got things we need to figure out,” I say softly. “But we’re not going to figure them out if we keep turning on each other.”

Her gaze drops to her hands, and for a moment, she looks as tired as I feel. “I hate fighting with you,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper.

I reach for her hand, my thumb brushing against her knuckles. “Me too.”

She looks up at me, her eyes meeting mine, and there’s a flicker of something unguarded there. “We’re a mess, aren’t we?”

“Maybe,” I say with a faint smile. “But we’re still here. Still fighting for each other, even when it doesn’t feel like it.”

Her lips quirk into a small, tired smile. “I guess that’s something.”

“It’s everything,” I say quietly.

Sage

I keep my gaze fixed on our joined hands, the warmth of Dash’s thumb brushing over my knuckles grounding me in a way I’m not ready to acknowledge. The silence between us feels fragile, like it could crack under the weight of everything left unsaid. Mara’s words echo in my mind, urging me to speak up.

“I don’t want to need you,” I finally say quietly, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

His hand stills against mine, and I feel him shift beside me. “Why?”

I force myself to meet his gaze, even though it feels like standing on the edge of a cliff. “Because needing someone means letting them in. Letting them see the parts of me I can barely look at myself. And if I let myself… if I rely on you, and something happens—” My voice catches, and I look away, staring at the floor.

“Sage,” Dash says softly, his voice pulling me back. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You can’t promise that,” I whisper. “No one can.”

He exhales slowly, his fingers tightening around mine. “You’re right. I can’t promise that nothing will ever happen. But I can promise that I’m here now. That I’m not going to let you carry everything on your own.”

I shake my head, frustration bubbling up. “But what if I can’t—what if I let myself lean on you, and it all falls apart? What if I’m not strong enough to pull myself back up?”

He’s quiet for a moment, and when I glance at him, his expression is steady but filled with something I can’t quite name.

“You once said something,” he begins, his tone soft but firm. “To Mara, I think. You were trying to help her through something hard, and you told her, ‘Being vulnerable is the bravest thing we can do.’”

The words hit me like a punch to the chest, the memory flashing through my mind. I’d said it without hesitation, believing it wholeheartedly in that moment. But now, hearing it turned back on me, it feels like Dash has stripped away every defense I’ve built.

“That’s different,” I say, my voice weak.

“Is it?” he asks, his tone gentle but unyielding. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re doing the exact thing you told Mara not to do. You’re closing yourself off, acting like needing someone makes you weak, when really, it just makes you human.”

My throat tightens, and I feel the sting of tears threatening to well up. I blink them back, refusing to let them fall. “I don’t know how to be vulnerable, Dash. Not with everything that’s at stake. If I let myself feel—if I let myself need you—what happens if I lose you?”

His hand moves to cradle my face, his touch impossibly gentle. “You don’t have to know how to do it all at once. Let me help you. Let me show you that you’re not going to lose me, not like this.”

The tears spill over before I can stop them, and I press my forehead against his, closing my eyes as I try to steady my breathing. “I’m scared,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” he murmurs, his voice steady and grounding. “But you don’t have to face it alone. I’m here, Sage. For all of it.”

His words are a lifeline, pulling me back from the edge. I don’t know if I believe him, not fully—not yet. But in this moment, I let myself lean into him, just a little, and it feels like the first step toward something I’m not ready to name.