At some point, Tom corralled her into the bed and off the floor. Then, settled in a more comfortable position, she'd cried herself into exhaustion. Tom hadn't moved since. He couldn't. Didn't want to leave her alone, fearing she'd wake in a panic and spiral further. An hour, perhaps more, had passed, the lack of light peeking through the curtains aiding Tom's conclusion, and he could smell food wafting from downstairs. He'd failed them—all of them. The day they should have spent enjoying each other's company, fishing on the dock, grilling, and eating by the fire, had ended up like this. His daughter, once again taking care of her brother, Sasha at her lowest point, and he with the insurmountable knowledge that he should have acted sooner.

He'd been too scared of forcing the issues. Afraid of pushing her away. Naïve when he'd chosen to believe she'd work through this herself, when in hindsight, all the signs were there. Everyone had a limit, and Sasha was not invincible—he would have been wise to remember it.

A soft knock interrupted those thoughts, and he battled indecision. There was no way to detangle himself, meaning the only choice was to hope exhaustion would keep Sasha sedate.

Quietly, he murmured, "You can come in."

Two heads crept around the door, their silhouettes all Tom could make out against the light from the hallway. It drew across the carpeted rug in a diagonal, long, rectangle stopping just short of the bed. Lifting his head enough to be visible, he held his finger to his lips, and then gestured them forward.

He whispered to Ashley when she reached the bed. "What is it, sweetheart?"

"We made you both dinner if you're hungry," she whispered back.

"Thank you, sweetie. Why don't you leave it in the microwave, and I'll come down later, okay?"

The light was enough to make out her features. Her gaze was traveling Sasha's form while she chewed her lip. Sasha's back was to them, her head tucked below his chin and face buried against his chest with the covers wrapped tight up to her neck. From the kids' perspective, the only view was the back of her head.

"Is she really okay? We heard her crying." Ashley's question was so hesitant and quiet, Tom barely heard it.

When it registered, a knot twisted his brows. Damn. He'd already accepted the situation was too serious to hide, but he hadn't prepared the right words yet. "No, baby. She's not—but she will be. She just needs some time and some rest."

Solemnly, Ashley nodded and put her arm around Sam. "I really am sorry—"

He shook his head. "Not your fault—we'll talk, and I'll explain everything later, okay? Whatever questions you guys have, you can ask, but Sasha really needs to sleep. I don't want to wake her up."

"Okay," she conceded, giving him one final sad look that tugged at his heart before they both exited the room as cautiously as they'd come. Once the soft click resonated, and he heard even breathing continue for several minutes, the tension eased from his frame. The knowledge that they'd overhead gnawed at his psyche, but he couldn't be in two places at once. Sighing, he rested his lips against Sasha's crown, and toyed absently with the ends of her hair, waiting out the guilt.

A painful itching tingle burned in his palm—lack of circulation, Tom realized. Sasha's head was still buried between his shoulder, the pillow, and his chest, one arm wedged tightly between them, and the other thrown over his waist. Their legs were entangled, and it was still dark, though the room was bathed with a distinct tinge of blue. Dawn. He must have fallen asleep after the kids left. A summary confirmed by the fullness of his bladder.

Slowly, Tom lifted Sasha's head so he could move the arm. She stirred, and he waited, frozen mid-movement, for her to shift and then settle again before untangling the rest of their limbs. Shaking the arm back to life, Tom clenched and unclenched his fist several times, and checked his timepiece. She'd slept for almost twelve hours, and the relief was close to overwhelming. This was the longest he'd witnessed her sleep uninterrupted period.

In the time, he'd checked on the kids, found Sam curled up with Ashley in the room she'd claimed, and left everyone to rest. He'd showered in the guest suite, eaten, and then taken care of the cooler. Thrown out the steaks and other tainted goods far from the property line and washed the offending item three times over with some bleach he'd found in the kitchen. What remained salvageable, he'd transferred to the fridge and debated whether he had time to make the trip into town to replace what was spoiled.

Upstairs, Sasha rolled. Every muscle sore, and heavy like she'd taken a beating. Dull throbbing berated the back of her skull, eyes gritty and tongue dry. Sounds from the TV floated muffled from downstairs; the kids had put the movie collection to good use it seemed. On the nightstand, Tom had left water, and the chalky taste in her mouth intensified. Greedy, she drained half its contents and pulled open the drawer in search of the Advil she kept there.

Her gun was missing.

It was like a physical weight pressed down, sentencing her to reality.

Tom was that worried. He didn't trust her mental state—all it took was a moment of despair in the right circumstance—anyone connected to the service knew that. The knowledge only became harder to ignore after realizing she couldn't fault Tom. For the gun, or for what he'd done. Closing the drawer, Sasha relinquished the water and sank back.

She wasn't sad. What engulfed her now was far more insidious—nothing. She couldn't reconcile the thought that she was hungry, knowing that to eat would require simple actions that were impossible because she didn't care anymore. About anything. The absence of every sensation in life—good and bad—convinced her that maybe she'd been right, maybe she was a corpse and none of this was real. Cognitively, she saw and understood that she was in their bed… but the pressure of the sheets against her skin was jarring. Their texture but a muted illusion of how she remembered they should feel, and yet she couldn't. Those sounds from the TV were recognizable but warped, like the ears she was wearing didn't belong to her. She pictured the rebel who'd begged for his life when she cut hand from limb. Replayed the atrocities of butchering them alive and felt nothing. Even the fear of what was happening to her didn't connect, like she was reading a summary of what she should be, but not living it.

Time passed unquantifiably. Her thoughts a spiraling monologue that questioned where, or even what, she was until the depression of the mattress drew her gaze from the white paneled ceiling to meet Tom's.

"Hey."

His tender voice was recognizable. The warmth from his fingers, when they trailed against her cheek, familiar and piercing the terrifying dissociation burying her. All that came out was a shaky breath, and she found in those seconds a desperate need to confess; to beg for his help in ways she'd never believed possible. She thought, perhaps, that her mouth even opened, but instead of words, grief poured from her soul again in a raspy sob.

Immediately, he moved, drew back the covers and pulled her against his chest. "Okay," his hand clutched the back of her skull. "It's alright."

In the soft fabric of his t-shirt, her fingers found purchase and then clawed. "Tom."

The plea made him wince. It begged the impossible. "I know, baby." He kissed her forehead. "I know it hurts—but I promise you, we will figure this out together, and you will feel better." An uncomfortable resurgence of memories held secret impaled Tom. Alone. Scared his kids might overhear and see that he was broken. Lost. But he also had facts—the only way out of this was through it. There was no other choice.

Her crying intensified. She was powerless to stop it, feared it never would. Gun to her head, she couldn't surmise what this was except all of it. The whole fucking world had imploded, and she'd lost everything. Didn't know who she was. What to do. How to go back. How to go forward.

But he was with her.

Gently, he cradled her. Cheek against crown, listening. Sometimes, the only comfort you could give was to be present. His mother had told him that—decades ago. "You're gonna be alright, Sash." He waited several moments before continuing. "You cry as much as you need and then we'll take a shower and eat—and that's all we have to do today," he murmured, relieved to feel a jerky nod.

For three days, she'd been unable to leave the room. It dawned, that if Tom weren't forcing her to attend to basic needs, she wouldn't do that either. She felt useless. Broken—irreparably so—guilty that she'd ruined their downtime and he spent hours holding her while she endlessly wept, sometimes silently, sometimes hysterically, swirling in a terrifying purgatory of wanting to communicate but being trapped. She wondered if this defined a nervous breakdown. It was late. She knew because it was dark. Her phone had buzzed with messages, and she'd yet to review a single one. It was too much effort. Too many people wanting attention and she could simply ask Tom to do it for her, yet if she did, everyone would know she'd lost her mind and her pride wouldn't allow it, so the cycle continued.

Everything was within reach. TV remote, laptop, the book she'd been reading before Panama—all put there by Tom if she wanted, but she couldn't. Sleeping passed the time. In twisted irony, it appeared she could no longer dream either. Instead, the hours blessed her with non-existence. Tom came back, though she couldn't say how long he'd been gone… maybe a while, because he appeared subtly shocked to see that she was sitting up, versus laying in a singular position she'd taken for days.

"Hi," she said.

Tom couldn't call it more than a whisper, but it was still the most beautiful sound, and she hadn't been coherent in days. "Hey," he echoed, sitting atop the sheets beside her.

He took one of her hands into his own and studied her expression, while her gaze dropped to explore the vascularity of his palms. Shame crawled her skin, though she knew he wasn't judging her. More of that pride.

"The kids are asking after you."

There was hesitation laced in the caress of his soft murmur.

"They are?"

His free hand cupped her cheek. "Of course, they are. They care about you. Why would you think any differently?

She seemed to shrug. "Because you've spent more time in here with me, when you—"

"I'm exactly where I need to be." Gently he tilted her chin up, and she stopped avoiding eye contact. "And we spent plenty of quality time together while you were away." His thumb stroked across the line of her jaw. "If you're feeling up to it, they've been begging me for three days to come and see you?"

Once more, she lowered her chin, chewing her lip while pondering what to do with that information. "What did you tell them?"

For a moment, he paused, and then resumed tenderly brushing fingertips against her skin. "The truth. They heard, baby. It's not like I could hide it."

Closing her eyes, she swallowed and sighed. It was no one's fault, just the way things had gone down, but she would have preferred he lie, however ridiculous and wrong it seemed. Perhaps it's what she needed. Time with two people still yet to learn there was no hope for this broken world, so she could soothe herself with their innocence. Establishing eye contact again, Sasha nodded, and his lip tugged into a soft grin.

"Alright, I'll go get em."

In the interim, she fussed with the comforter to occupy her hands. Sam's footfalls were loud when they thudded up the stairs. It sparked something warm in her. The door was still open; the light pouring in from the hallway broken by the shadow of both kids when they emerged.

"Sasha!" Sam said, bounding over to the bed which he ascended, though careful not to crumple the paper between his hands. The idea of making small talk seemed almost foreign, and mild panic surged until he produced the paper.

"I made you this."

Reaching out, Sasha accepted it. Ashley was now looming at the bedside too, with a small hesitant smile, though she'd chosen not to sit like Sam had. A heavy lump lodged in her throat when Sasha studied the card. He'd put some considerable effort into coloring the front and drawn some letting that read 'Feel Better'.

"You did?" He nodded with enthusiasm. Upon opening it, she discovered another drawing of her this time, but it was the message that filled her with precious sentiment. A simple list of reasons that they thought she was 'the best' and why she shouldn't be sad, including the fact she had pretty hair written in a P.S. A watery laugh escaped when she reached that part, but what undid her was the simple anecdote as a sign-off.

'We missed you, love Ashley & Sam'

Battling for composure, Sasha pressed her fingers over her mouth to stop the quivering. "Thank you, I love it." The words were choked out before she lost the fight entirely and buried her face in her hands. Small slim arms encircled her—Ashley—who'd climbed onto the bed opposite Sam.

"It's okay, Sasha. We were sad too when Mom and Grandpa died, but it will get better—right, Sam?"

"Yeah," he echoed. Shifting closer and joining the embrace. "Dad says as long as we stick together, then everything will be fine."

Nodding and unable to form words, Sasha clasped a hand around Ashley's arm, floored by their kindness and how much it affected her. Shortly after, Tom discovered them that way. It made his heart clench. Softly sighing, he settled behind Sasha, wrapping them all in an embrace, and pressed a kiss into her hair.

She realized then that she had a family, and they were worth fighting for.

It was a beautiful night. A decent breeze made the humidity comfortable, and Tom was sitting on the porch sofa overlooking the river. That morning, Sasha had finally emerged. Five days after he'd pushed her past breaking point, and every one of those days had been spent questioning if he'd done the right thing. She wasn't dreaming anymore, at least. They'd spent an almost entirely normal day together, watched the kids play in water, grilled and then roasted marshmallows by the fire… precisely as it should have been, save for whatever went down in Panama. Sure, the crying had stopped, and in his opinion, those tears were long overdue—but she could barely look at him. Stared into space when she thought he wasn't watching…

The sound of the patio door stripped his attention, and he glanced, ache irradiating more when he saw her. She'd changed from her bathing suit, taken a shower, and was wearing a dress he'd never seen. Thinking of it, the last time he'd seen her in a dress was at the Christmas party. It was linen. White with thin straps and fabric that billowed in the breeze to her mid-calf, and it struck that he wished she could see herself the way he did. Understand that she was the most exquisite thing in the world to him—maybe then she wouldn't be so afraid to tell him what she'd done.

And he knew that's what it was.

She'd done something. After hours and hours of painstaking analysis, it was the singular conclusion that fit.

Nervous, she sat beside him, a single leg tucked beneath her, and hands clasped in her lap.

It wasn't fair, she thought. Wasn't fair that this night should be so beautiful, the sky so clear and the stars so bright while the live oaks rustled, water lapped, and an orchestra of crickets chirped. Not when she was about to destroy everything. Her lips parted, and he waited patient as ever, moonlight casting shadows across his impossibly handsome face.

"Whatever you did, you can tell me, Sasha."

Her brows contorted, and then it tumbled from her lips in a wretched breath. "I tortured them." Her hands were already shaking. "I cut their hands and feet off, and I was gonna leave them that way, to crawl through the jungle if they really wanted to live..." she choked. "I thought it would make it better—and I just—" pitchy, she fought to finish. "I was wrong. So wrong, and I don't know how to come back from this, Tom."

Tom blinked.

Tortue.

Processing. Piecing together the rest from the details contained within their official report. "Because of the boy?" he clarified quietly, unable to stop the intrusive mental image of the photograph they'd taken to document the rebels' crimes against humanity.

Jerky, she nodded, gaze everywhere but him, with a trembling hand pressed hard against her mouth and fresh tears pouring down her face.

"Green went with you."

If possible, her expression became more wrenched and she choked again. Heaviness settled in his gut, but not for the reasons she presumed—he didn't want this for her. Didn't like the reality that she'd found the limit, discovered pain that crippled and warped her into something she wasn't, not in her heart. He knew her heart. And he knew what it was to live in a world where everything he'd sworn to be had broken because he'd fallen from grace. Seen that he was just a man as flawed and damned as the rest of them—the same man who'd buckled under Shaw's circumstance, and murdered in cold blood. A woman. Unarmed.

"Sasha."

It was a plea that landed somewhere between sadness, regret, and something else she couldn't define. She made a strangled noise and shook her head, peering hard across the grass, and it became clear to Tom then. He knew what she needed from him.

"Baby, look at me."

The struggle played out through her body language, the shaky breath, and a moment like she'd almost prayed for the courage to face him, and the fear that swam in her eyes when she did broke his heart.

"I love you," he said. Reaching out and drawing her hand into his. "Exactly the way you are. I always have—and I will love you enough for the both of us until you figure out how to forgive yourself for being human. Everything's gonna be alright, okay? I'm not going anywhere."

It stole what remained of her breath. She'd never had this before—love that was forgiving and open. Love that offered salvation. Acceptance. Safety. She'd never thought that possible for her, and it had never been more apparent that she'd found it with him. He was wiping her skin, some kind of softness in his features like she was the most beautiful thing he'd seen. Couldn't say she understood it, but it drew an epiphany. "I never should have walked away from you." It was croaked, no louder than a whisper, and his fingers stilled.

Tilting his head softly, he searched her features. A boyish gleam lighting his eyes. "Is that your way of saying you'll marry me now if I asked?" There was still fear, though, beneath the lopsided grin. Fear that he'd read her wrong. Again.

"If you asked," she whispered.

His thumb traveled its favorite path down her cheek until it skimmed her lips and then rested at the angle of her jaw. The languid blink drew with it a quiet attempt to convey everything he felt in a single look. "Then marry me."

Unable to speak or breathe past the emotion lodged tight in her throat, Sasha nodded instead, shifting forward to climb into his lap, where she clung to him in a desperate embrace. His forehead rested against the column of her throat. Lips soft when he placed a kiss to her sternum, and she trailed her fingers through his hair.

She sniffed. "I love you, Tom."

Again, he shifted, his lips traveling her jawline, leaving delicate pecks until he captured her mouth with his.

"I love you, too," he murmured. "Always, Sasha." He ran a hand through her hair. "Always.