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Clary scrambled up the jagged, craggy edge of the boulder, her fingers digging into the sharp rocks as she desperately tried to get a better view of the chaotic battlefield before her. From her precarious perch, all she could see were the writhing bodies of the soldiers, pressing close together like an unstoppable tide. The air was alive with the flash of steel as weapons clashed, their glinting edges catching the dim light of the battlefield. Among the chaos, she could make out dark shapes skirting the edges of the fight - the low, hunched forms of wolves, their eyes glinting with a predatory hunger as they moved through the melee, weaving between the soldiers with a deadly grace.
Her heart pounded in her chest as she scrambled back down the boulder, landing hard on the ground, the impact jarring her bones. Without hesitation, she reached for the sword at her side, lifting it with both hands. Glorious responded almost immediately, the flame inside the blade flaring to life. It crackled with an intensity that nearly took her breath away, sending waves of heat radiating from the blade and into the air around her. The flame reached higher, almost licking the stars themselves and she could feel the air grow hotter as the blade's power surged within her grip.
Pushing through the thick, suffocating mass of Endarkened soldiers, Clary moved with purpose. The soldiers, their eyes wide with fear, parted before her as though the very sight of the sword struck terror into their hearts. Their movement was not one of reverence but of instinctive fear - fear of the heavenly fire, fear of her. She didn’t care. She couldn’t care. The only thing that mattered was finding him. She needed to reach Sebastian.
Her heart raced as her eyes scanned the sea of bodies, the waves of red gears and darkened armor. She needed to see him. She needed to find him. She needed to kill him. But as she pushed forward, everything was moving too fast. Her mind felt like it was racing ahead, but the battlefield remained a blur. She couldn’t see him. She couldn’t see Simon. She couldn’t—
Her gaze locked on a familiar figure, and for the briefest moment, her breath caught in her throat. Jace. He stood just a few meters away, blocking her path. His expression was one of profound conflict, the lines of his face drawn tight in uncertainty. His pale skin seemed to glow faintly in the dim light, and his eyes met hers. There was something in them, something so filled with sorrow, that Clary's chest tightened, a cold, smoky despair crawling up her throat, choking her.
Jace’s lips twisted into a bitter, unreadable expression as he slowly lifted his arm, his fingers extended toward her, his voice low but firm. “Hand over the sword,” he commanded, his voice a mixture of frustration and pain. “Just give it to me, Clary.”
Breath left her in a rush, sick rising up in her throat, but she tightened her grip on the sword. Clary could feel the pressure of the soldiers around them, closing in, tightening like a vice. There was no way out. No way forward. Nowhere to run. She could feel the weight of every choice pressing down on her as she stared into Jace’s eyes.
Very well. She had made her choice. There was no turning back.
She lifted her chin, her voice a low, defiant whisper, “You really want it?”
Jace’s face softened, just for a moment, a flash of something resembling regret, but it was quickly gone. Her grip tightened, her eyes locked onto his as she whispered, “Take it.”
But before she could move any closer to him, the ground trembled violently, sending a shockwave through her body. The world seemed to lurch, and she was thrown off balance, her knees buckling beneath her as a deafening explosion rocked the ground.
Clary fell to the earth with a cry, her body hitting the ground hard, the impact jarring her senses. She gasped for air, choking on the thick, acrid smoke that rose in heavy, suffocating clouds. The heat from the battle raged on, but a wall of fire had erupted in front of her, consuming the space between her and Jace in a furious blaze.
Through the flames, she saw his face, his expression had shifted from one of determination to pure, unadulterated panic. He was trying to push through the flames, calling her name, his voice hoarse and desperate, but something invisible was holding him back. It was as though an unseen force was dragging him away, keeping him from reaching her. Clary’s heart clenched as she watched him struggle, the distance between them growing with every second.
And then, the impossible happened.
From the thick smoke a figure emerged, tall and imposing, the very air around her seeming to tremble with her presence. Lilith. She stood before them like a dark goddess, her form towering over them, her power radiating from her in waves. She was as tall as Raziel himself had been when Valentine summoned him from Lake Lyn, an ancient, godlike presence that filled the air with an oppressive sense of doom. Time seemed to freeze in that moment, the world slowing to a crawl as Clary’s heart raced in her chest.
In that heartbeat, everything changed.
Before Clary could rise to her feet, the cold, biting touch of magic struck her chest.
It wasn’t like anything she had ever felt before. It was the cold of death itself, a paralyzing chill that sank deep into her bones, locking her muscles in place. A scream of pain built in her throat, but it was snatched away as her body went rigid, unable to move. Her legs gave out beneath her, and she crashed to the ground, her face slamming into the dirt with a brutal force that sent blinding pain through her skull. The impact sent a wave of agony radiating through her body, each shard of pain splintering into her limbs, searing through her flesh, branding her with a terrible intensity. Her bones felt as though they might break under the weight of it.
Everything went black.
-
She was lying down, her chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths. Her heart was still hammering in her ribcage, as if it had only just realized she was still alive. But she didn’t feel alive, not really. It was like she was stuck somewhere in between, her mind tethered to some place dark and far away. Her limbs felt heavy, as if they were weighed down with invisible chains. She forced her eyes open.
The room around her was dim, lit only by a sliver of reddish light creeping through a window, casting faint shadows against the walls. It was silent, eerily so. The kind of silence that clung to the edges of the air, suffocating. But even in the stillness, Clary could hear the distant echo of her own heartbeat, the pulse in her ears a reminder that she was here, now, and not wherever the nightmare had taken her.
The nightmare.
Clary’s breath caught in her throat as the images flashed in her mind - dark, twisting shapes, faces contorted with rage and pain. Blood. Fire. The feeling of something breaking inside of her. Her hands went to her face, her fingers brushing the skin there, half-expecting to feel the marks of the dream’s violence. But there was nothing. Nothing except the coolness of her own skin and the dampness of tears.
She closed her eyes again, squeezing them shut, trying to shake off the lingering sense of dread that clung to her like cobwebs. But it wouldn't go away. Not yet.
"Are you okay?"
Clary swallowed hard, her throat tight. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to speak, if the words would even come out right. It took everything she had just to sit up, her body still trembling from the remnants of the nightmare.
"I—" Her voice cracked, raw and unfamiliar. She tried again. “Yes, just a nightmare.”
She heard Ash shuffled out of the hallway and seconds later felt the couch shift as he sat next to her. “Another one?”
Clary combed her fingers through his fine hair, pushing them off his forehead with gentleness. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
Ash shrugged, his small shoulders rising and falling like he hadn’t quite grown into them yet. “You didn’t wake me,” he said, though his sleepy eyes and tousled hair told a different story. He glanced up at her, brows knitting together with that quiet, serious concern that didn’t belong on someone his age.
She exhaled shakily, brushing the heel of her hand beneath her eyes before he could see more tears. “It’s nothing, Ash. Just a bad dream. I’ll be okay.”
But he didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned in a little more, resting his head lightly against her shoulder, his arms curled around his knees like he was afraid to be too much, but still trying to stay. Still trying to help.
“I don’t like it when you lie like that,” he said, not accusing, “I can tell when you’re not okay.”
Clary let out a quiet laugh, barely more than a breath. “Guess I’m not as good at lying as I imagined.”
Ash shrugged, and for a while, neither of them spoke. Then, after a beat, Ash shifted again. Slowly, carefully, he reached up and took her hand in both of his. His grip was a little clumsy, uncertain, but warm. Steady.
“I don’t really know what to say,” he mumbled, staring at their joined hands. “But I’m here, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”
Clary’s throat tightened again, but this time not from fear. She looked down at him, this small, serious boy with more heart than the world deserved, and managed a tired, grateful smile.
“I know,” she whispered, squeezing his hand. “I know.”
-
It didn’t take long to adjust to the new routine - not more than a few weeks, really. But when you lived there long enough, it started to feel like that was all there was.
Clary and Ash lived across the hall from two sisters from Hoboken. They weren’t exactly friends, but they had become something close. The sisters, older and tougher, worked as seamstresses for those few among Endarkened and Forsworn who didn’t care much who they paid for their services, stitching and mending to keep themselves afloat. They had taken a liking to Ash, too, and they were kind enough to look after him while Clary worked at the warehouse, asking him to help them for those odd jobs they couldn’t manage. Clary was grateful for their company. The sisters weren’t much for conversation, but they were steady, and steady was what she needed.
As she was dreadful with a needle and was deemed to small physically to be among the sort who got sent out to join the work crews too, Clary had gotten a fake name and a job in the warehouse. She didn’t mind, though, because she needed the job. She needed the ration cards.
The only guarded places, ones where electricity was always working and demons were dutifully kept far away from, were the handful of warehouses that offered jobs to the population. Seven of them, to be precise, most of which received salvaged goods collected from the Burnt Lands– those zones even further away from the safety of walled cities, areas that had fallen in the claws of demons to the point of being completely unlivable – goods that were then sorted out and sent into storages inside the walls, where they would be handed out to the people who were deemed loyal enough to have earned a spot, people who lived beyond the gates and beyond the reach of the guards. But it was a job, and for Clary, a job meant a ration card. The ration card was what allowed her to eat, what kept Ash fed, and that was all that mattered.
Clary had heard the rumors about the guards, the way they demanded favors in exchange for work, the things they wanted in return. She was desperate, yes, but not desperate enough to bend to their will. She wouldn’t stoop that low. But then there was the man who ran one of the warehouses, a short, squat, balding guy who, despite his rough exterior, took a glance at Clary’s unmarked arm and decided to take pity on her anyways. He offered her a job one day, waving away her gratitude with a trembling, stubby hand, as if he was afraid of being seen offering such an act of kindness. Clary noticed the way his hand shook, especially when the guards were nearby, and she realized - he was afraid, too. The ring on his finger told her all she needed to know. He was a family man, trying to protect what little he had. If he was a Forsworn – a mundane who had sworn loyalty to Sebastian - it was in name only. At least, that was the only thing she could hold onto, his compassion, his simple desire to help without asking for anything in return.
The job didn’t pay much, just what was enough to get by, enough to buy the bare essentials they needed. The most important part about it were the ration cards it provided, the thread keeping them from starving. It was a lifeline - nothing more, nothing less - and Clary held onto it for as long as she could. She had to. Because without it, she wouldn’t just lose herself. She would lose Ash, and that was something she would never allow to happen.
She had started to notice how Ash had lost weight since they had gotten here, growing thinner and thinner with each passing month and the weight of worry hung heavy on her shoulders. Clary always made sure he ate his fill, even if it meant cutting her own portion in half, but still he couldn’t fill his clothes properly, and the season changed with the same brutal inevitability. She had seen other children in the block – and lots of adults too - ragged, pale, skin stretched too tight over bone, eyes hollow with hunger. They begged for scraps, and Clary tried not to look at them. She couldn’t help them all, but she could help her nephew. And that was all she could focus on.
Winter had come inexorably, and Clary was able to buy Ash a coat, something to shield him from the cold. But when it came to herself, there was nothing left. No money for a coat, no extra funds for warmth. She started keeping the stove on throughout the night. The apartment was a cramped thing, just a small living space plus one bathroom and one bedroom off a narrow corridor. Ash was settled the slanted, cramped bedroom, and the little privacy that came with it, while Clary, desperate for warmth, laid out blankets on the old couch. There, in the dim, flickering light of the stove, she slept with her pillow clutched to her chest, the heat of the stove a small comfort in the otherwise unbearable cold.
But no matter how many mornings she woke cold and alone, every time she woke up, a part of her expected to find Jace next to her. She couldn’t help it. He should have been there, his warm body pressed against her back, his breath gentle against the nape of her neck. She hadn’t slept without him in years - not since she was eighteen, when they first shared a bed. She remembered the way he used to sleep, with his arm around her, pulling her close. The nights they spent apart - especially when he had to go on missions - used to be the worst nights of her life. But even then, she had known he would come back. There was no question. He always did.
But now? Now, she couldn’t even imagine what bed he was in. Where was he? What was he doing? She knew him well enough to know that he must be going insane trying to find a way to bring her back. But she couldn’t help but think, if only she could go back to those nights when they were apart, back to the moments when she still had that unshakable belief that he would always come back to her. It was gone now, that belief. All she had left was the gnawing, hollow feeling of his absence.
They signed up for this life of war together. They fought side by side, shoulder to shoulder, believing in each other, fighting for each other. But now that they weren’t together, it felt as though she was drowning. The weight of the world pressed down on her more and more with every night without him. Each night felt heavier than the last, and the air around her grew thicker, harder to breathe.
Clary walked the border near the city sometimes, mostly when she couldn’t stand being inside any longer. The patrol path ran along the inside of the wall, narrow, uneven, and worn down by years of boots passing through. Her eyes scanned the streets beyond the fence, where the city stretched out in tired lines of half-standing buildings and people moving slowly, like they’d forgotten what it felt like to hurry. This place, what was left of it, wasn’t much just the last scraps of what used to be called civilization. But it was still standing. Barely.
The wall that kept it all in, and kept everything else out, was massive. Nearly forty feet tall, built from thick concrete, rusted steel, and anything else that had been scavenged over the years. It looked more like a junk heap than a defense system, but it had been built by mundanes who had no clue of the real nature of the threat they were going against. Still, the wall worked. For a while. Up close, Clary could see the damage left behind from past attacks: burns from explosives, long claw-like scratches from things that weren’t human, and sometimes even darker stains that no one talked about out loud. People said they were from those who tried and failed to fight against Sebastian’s rule. Rebels. Like Magnus. Like Simon. Like Luke and her mother. Clary tried not to think about them. She couldn’t afford to.
When she allowed herself to think about them, her hatred for Sebastian made her sick.
It wasn’t the kind of hatred that burned hot and fast, like fire, it was slow and suffocating, a sickness that curled around her ribs and sank deep into her bones. She could feel it when she lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wishing she could tear the memory of him out of her mind like a weed. It made her stomach turn, how long she had spent fooling herself. Years, really. Years of pretending that somewhere, buried beneath all the venom and violence, the brother she had once dreamed of still existed. She had whispered those lies to herself in the dark: that the boy who might have been kind, who might have laughed with her, protected her, called her sister like it meant something—that boy had just been lost, not gone.
In her mind’s eye, he had had the same green eyes she saw in the mirror, full of curiosity and mischief, not malice. She had built stories around him like scaffolding, fragile and trembling, stories of two children running barefoot through sun-drenched fields, of a bond that had never really existed. But it had been a fantasy, nothing more. A hollow hope.
Because the truth was uglier, and it carved into her like glass. That version of him had never been real. Not for a second.
Clary had clung to those illusions like a lifeline, because the truth was too heavy to carry. That her brother wasn’t broken in a way that could be fixed, he was corrupted, poisoned to the core. Twisted in a way that had no beginning and no cure. He didn’t want to be saved. He didn’t even understand why he should be. Love, mercy, even the idea of family, it meant nothing to him. Blood meant power, not connection. Clary had been a fool. A desperate, grieving fool who had once thought that there was some good that could drag back from the edge. That something inside him, some hidden fragment, might remember what it meant to be human.
But Sebastian had never forgotten, he simply never cared. And now, all those hopes she used to cradle like fragile glass in her hands, all those imagined memories she had once used to soften the sharpness of her grief, felt like a mockery. A trick she had played on herself to survive. She hated them now. Hated herself for needing them.
Because Sebastian wasn’t the brother she had wished for. He was a monster. And worse, he had always been.
Clary’s jaw clenched as the old fury surged again, white-hot and dizzying. Her hands trembled, her breath shallow. She seethed with it—not just for what he had done to her, but for what he still might do. Because monsters didn’t stop unless someone stopped them. And she wouldn’t let him reach Ash. She wouldn’t. Not the way he’d reached her. Not the way he’d poisoned every innocent thing he touched.
She swore it to herself then, fierce and silent like a blade drawn in the dark: Sebastian would never hurt Ash. Never. Not while she still had breath in her body.
-
Mostly, her job at the warehouse was uneventful, and Clary was glad for that. There was comfort in the routine, in the steady, rhythmic hum of machines and the quiet shuffle of workers moving about their tasks.
She took care of large, industrial carts brimming to the edge with all sorts of stuff that she spent her days sorting through, categorizing everything into neat, orderly sections. Each item had a place, and it was her job to make sure that they got there. It wasn’t the sort of job that demanded a lot of creativity or problem-solving, but she had come to appreciate the simplicity of it.
The worst part of the job, however, was the toll it took on her body. The hours seemed endless, and she found herself standing for long stretches without much of a break. Her legs would ache and her feet would throb, but there was little time for respite. Aside from a couple of quick bathroom breaks, the only other reprieve came at the end of the shift, when she could finally sit down and let her exhausted muscles rest.
By the end of each day, her hands were coated in a thin film of dust and grime, the skin on her knuckles dry and cracked from the constant handling of rough materials. Gloves helped, but only so much. She’d go home with bruises she didn’t remember getting, her shoulders tight and her spine stiff from the repetitive bending and lifting. Some nights, it took everything she had just to peel off her boots and drag herself to the cot in the corner of her shared room.
By the time she reached the apartment that night, her body felt like it had been hollowed out and left running on whatever scraps of willpower she had left. The narrow hallway smelled faintly of boiled cabbage from someone’s dinner down the block, and the floorboards creaked under her steps in that tired, uneven way they always did. She paused outside the door, fingers hovering on the knob for a second before she pushed it open.
Inside, the air was warmer, just barely, but enough to take the sting out of her skin. Ash was already curled up in the armchair, legs tucked under him, a battered notebook balanced on his knees. The lamplight painted his hair gold in patches, and for a moment, just a brief, dangerous moment, Clary could almost pretend they were somewhere safe.
He looked up when she stepped in, eyes lighting in that quiet way that still made something deep in her chest ache. “You’re late,” he said, not accusing, just stating a fact.
“They kept us longer,” she replied, setting down her gloves and shrugging off her thin jacket. “Big shipment from the Burnt Lands. More sorting than usual.” She didn’t add that half of it had been damaged beyond use, or that some of it still carried the faint, acrid smell of demon ichor.
Ash closed his notebook, marking the page with one finger. “Did you eat yet?”
She shook her head. “Not yet. You?”
He hesitated - too long - and that was answer enough.
Clary sighed, stepping over to ruffle his hair gently. “Come on. Let’s fix something.”
The cupboard didn’t have much: a can of soup, a handful of stale crackers, and the last of the dried fruit she’d been saving. She split it between them, ignoring the familiar knot of guilt that came when she realized she had taken slightly more than she should have.
When they were done, Ash drifted back to his chair, notebook in hand, and Clary sank onto the couch. Her legs ached too much to move, but her mind refused to rest. Every sound outside, the wind rattling a loose shutter, the distant clang of metal, the occasional echo of boots on pavement—made her shoulders tense.
Ash looked over at her then, setting the book aside. “You look tired,” he said quietly.
Clary smiled, though it felt fragile, like thin glass threatening to shatter. “I’m always tired these days.”
He scooted closer, the armchair scraping softly against the floor. “Why don’t you sit with me?” he offered, patting the space beside him.
She hesitated for a moment but then stood and eased down onto the edge of the chair. Ash shifted to make room, and soon they were pressed together in the cramped space, warmth against cold, a small island in the bleakness.
“What are you scribbling?”
Ash turned the notebook toward her, tapping a rune with the eraser end of his pencil. “This one’s still wrong. Looks off no matter how many times I try it.”
Clary leaned closer, squinting at the page. The mark wobbled halfway through, like his hand had slipped. “It’s not bad,” she said. “But you’re thinking too hard about the lines. You’ve got to… carry the meaning with it.”
He gave her a doubtful look. “Meaning. Right.”
She smiled, taking the pencil from him. “Watch. You don’t just draw—” she sketched a quick, confident curve— “You picture what it’s for. Let that guide you.” She slid the notebook back. “Now your turn.”
Ash exhaled slowly, pressing the pencil down again. His hand shook a little, but the rune came out cleaner this time. He studied it like it might change if he blinked too fast. “…Closer?”
“Much.” Clary gave a small nod. “See? Progress.”
He let out a short laugh, more self-conscious than amused. “Feels like learning my letters all over again.”
“Yeah, except your alphabet might catch fire if you get it wrong,” she teased.
He tilted his head, only half joking. “Comforting.”
Clary shrugged. “You’ll get there. Everyone’s runes look like trash at first.”
Ash was quiet for a beat, eyes on the page. “I just… don’t want to be dead weight. You’re the one who keeps us safe, not me.”
The words made something twist in her chest. She reached out before he could start scribbling again, her hand covering his. “Hey. You’re not dead weight. Don’t say that.”
He lowered his gaze, but he didn’t argue.
“Try one more,” she said gently, sliding the notebook back to him. “Then we’re done for tonight. Deal?”
Ash hesitated, then gave a small nod. His pencil moved again, slower this time, steadier, the shape almost right. When he pulled back, there was the faintest spark of pride in his expression, even if he tried to hide it.
Clary smiled. “Told you.”
Ash set the pencil down like he didn’t trust his hand not to mess it up if he kept going.
“Okay,” he said. “I think that’s all my brain’s got.”
“Fair,” Clary replied. “Mine checked out hours ago.”
She leaned back slightly, careful not to jostle him, and he followed the movement without thinking, their shoulders settling together more comfortably this time. The notebook stayed open on his lap, the last rune still a little uneven, but not bad. Not bad at all.
After a bit, she felt his head tip gently against her shoulder—barely there at first, the kind of touch that could have been an accident if she’d wanted to pretend it was. He hesitated, breath catching, as if bracing for her to pull away. Clary didn’t move. She stayed exactly where she was, then shifted just enough to give him space, a quiet permission without words.
He took it. Slowly, his weight settled more fully against her, careful and warm, the solid reality of him pressing into her side. The chair creaked softly under the adjustment, and something in her chest loosened. It was such a simple thing, this closeness, but it anchored her in a way no rune, no weapon, no hard-earned vigilance ever managed to do. This was real. This was here.
She tilted her head and looked down at him. At first, it had been so easy - too easy - to look at Ash and see Sebastian in him. The resemblance had been impossible to ignore, carved into bone and expression, into the tilt of his mouth and the sharpness of his cheekbones. It had haunted her in the early days, every glance stirring up memories she didn’t want, echoes of someone who had hurt her, who had nearly broken everything she loved.
Ash’s green eyes had been the only thing that kept her from going insane. They were wrong in the best possible way - too soft, too open, carrying curiosity instead of cruelty. When he looked at her, there was no calculation there, no hunger for control. Just questions. Just hope.
And now, as the days blurred together and she learned the small, ordinary truths of him, that comparison began to fall apart. The resemblance, once so sharp it had felt like a wound, had dulled with time. It was still there, of course, woven into bone and blood, but it no longer demanded her attention. It became background noise, a detail she registered and then let pass, eclipsed by the small, steady truths of who Ash was: the patience he showed, the way he tried again when he failed, the quiet bravery it took just for him to keep going.
His eyes had drifted half-shut, lashes dark against his cheeks, the sharp edge he carried around with him finally dulled. The tension she’d been holding for both of them—every fear, every what-if—seemed to ease from his face. For once, he didn’t look older than he should. He just looked young.
“You falling asleep on me?” she asked, keeping her voice low, like she didn’t want to break whatever this was.
“Maybe,” he murmured, the word soft and unguarded. “Just… resting my eyes.”
She let out a quiet huff of laughter, more breath than sound. “Sure.”
He made a small sound in response, something between agreement and a sigh, and let his head rest more fully against her. The tension in his shoulders eased a notch, then another, until his weight settled in a way that was no longer cautious. His breathing evened out, slow and steady, the kind that only showed up once exhaustion got heavy enough that you couldn’t keep bracing against it anymore.
The notebook slid a little as his fingers loosened. Clary noticed right away and reached down, catching the edge before it tipped off his lap. She eased it free carefully, keeping it open to the last page like she didn’t want to disturb the work he’d done. Her hand brushed his, knuckles grazing, and this time there was no flinch, no reflexive pullback. His hand stayed where it was, relaxed and warm.
She set the notebook on the table beside the chair and leaned back again, giving him the same steady support. For a moment, she was aware of everything at once—the weight of his head, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the faint creak of the chair whenever either of them shifted. Then even that faded, and she found herself staring ahead, not really focused on anything. Just letting the quiet stretch.
Her shoulder started to tingle after a bit, and she adjusted slightly so it wouldn’t go numb, moving carefully, testing his balance before settling again. He didn’t stir. If anything, he leaned into her more, the last bit of distance gone. The change was subtle, but she felt it immediately.
Minutes passed. Maybe longer. His breathing grew deeper, more uneven at the edges, the way it did when sleep finally won. The weight against her side grew heavier, more solid, and she knew the last thread of wakefulness had slipped away.
Clary smiled to herself, small and tired, and kept still.
“Okay,” she whispered, barely more than a thought. “I’ve got you.”