Chapter 6

Kim’s POV

The hospital smells like antiseptic and tired hope.

I sit in the waiting room with my fingers curled into the hem of my hoodie, trying not to let the buzz of fluorescent lights or the distant echo of crying children unravel me. My right arm rests in my lap, cast still intact for now, though the skin beneath it itches like it’s begging to breathe again.

Erik sits beside me, flipping through a magazine he’s not really reading. I can feel the shape of his presence more than I see it—solid, quiet, grounding. He hasn’t said much since we left the apartment, but I don’t need words from him today. I just need him here.

My name is called by a nurse with a kind voice, and for a second, I freeze. My legs don’t move. My lungs forget how to expand.

Erik’s hand finds mine, firm and warm.

—“I’ll come with you,” he says simply.

I nod, and together we rise.

 

The cast is sawed off slowly, carefully. The sound of the machine still makes my stomach twist, but I keep my eyes on Erik, who leans against the wall across from me, arms folded but relaxed. He watches the nurse’s every movement like a quiet sentinel.

When the plaster finally peels away, I feel lighter. My arm looks pale, thinner, but free. The skin is marked with faint scars and bruises that haven’t fully faded, but it’s mine again. I rotate my wrist gently. Pain hums beneath the surface, dull but tolerable.

—“You’ll need a bit of physical therapy,” the nurse says. “Your mobility will return, but go slow. And... the rest of your injuries?”

My breath catches.

She gestures toward the folder Erik handed over earlier — the police medical report.

I nod, swallowing hard.

Erik steps forward. “She’s willing to have them looked at,” he says gently, looking at me for confirmation.

I nod again, barely.

The nurse leads me behind a curtain. Erik stays on the other side this time, and I can feel my heartbeat rising with every step she takes toward me. When she asks me to remove my sweatshirt, my hands shake.

I manage to lift the hoodie over my head. Underneath, I wear a thin tank top, and the cool air of the room brushes against old bruises and healing cuts.

The nurse doesn't gasp or frown or say anything at all, which somehow makes it easier. Her touch is professional, but not cold. She documents everything carefully, murmurs things to herself like “still healing,” “nothing appears infected,” “tissue damage resolving.” I nod at all of it like I’m hearing about someone else’s body.

When she finishes, she lets me redress and steps away.

—“You’re healing well,” she says. “But trauma like this... it’s not just physical. You know that, right?”

I nod, unsure what answer she wants.

She looks at me for a moment, then reaches for a piece of paper.

—“Your detective has already signed you up to see someone. A therapist. Female. Quiet place, small office. Private. She’s good.”

My eyes widen, and my gaze drifts toward the curtain. Of course Erik did.

I press the paper to my chest like it might anchor me.

When I step out, Erik straightens immediately. I don’t say anything, but I hand him the paper, and he reads it without asking for explanation.

—“Her name is Dr. Merrin,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “She’s helped a few survivors before. I trust her.”

—“I don’t know if I can do it,” I whisper.

He doesn’t push.

—“That’s okay. We’ll go slow. I’ll take you there. I’ll wait outside. I’ll drive you home.”

That promise—simple and solid—settles something inside me.

We leave the hospital and walk in silence to his car. He opens the passenger door for me and waits until I’m buckled in before he closes it gently. That small kindness makes my throat ache.

Back at the apartment, I cradle a warm cup of tea in both hands, grateful to feel it again without the bulk of the cast. My arm aches dully, but I welcome it. Pain that comes from healing is different. It’s honest.

Erik paces in the kitchen, looking for something in the cupboard. I watch him, wondering how a man who’s seen so much darkness can still be this gentle. Still be kind.

—“You didn’t have to sign me up,” I say quietly.

He turns, meeting my eyes.

—“I know,” he says. “But I also know how hard it is to ask for help. And I didn’t want you to have to.”

My throat tightens.

—“A lot of people knew what was happening. None of them helped.”

His face hardens, but not with anger—more like grief. The kind that doesn’t go away, just settles in your bones.

—“Then let me be different.”

I look away, blinking fast.

—“You already are.”

Later, I sit on the balcony alone, wrapped in a blanket, watching the city lights flicker like distant stars. The night air brushes my skin gently, no longer something to fear. My cast is gone. My wounds are healing. My world is small, but it’s mine again, piece by fragile piece.

The door opens behind me, and Erik steps out, coffee in one hand, his phone in the other.

—“Your first appointment’s in three days,” he says. “Morning. I’ll take you. No pressure if you’re not ready.”

I nod.

—“I’ll go.”

He glances at me, surprised, but doesn’t smile or praise or thank me.

He just nods back.

—“Okay.”

Then we sit in silence, side by side in the dark, with the city stretched below us and the promise of something better hovering just out of reach. For now.