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The reminder doesn't come all at once.
It comes in pieces.
The ache in my shoulders and the way my jaw won't unclench. The weight sitting heavy in my chest like something unfinished.
Court is over, but nothing feels done.
Ariana locks the door behind us and sets her bag down quietly, like she's afraid a loud sound might crack whatever fragile thing is holding me together right now. I stand there for a second too long, staring at nothing, still half expecting someone to yell my name or shove a microphone in my face.
"You okay?" she asks gently.
I nod out of instinct.
She doesn't buy it.
"Come on," she says. "You need to shower."
I let her guide me to the bathroom, my body moving before my mind catches up. The lights feel too bright at first. I squint, then look away from the mirror. I don't want to see myself yet.
She turns the water on and steam begins to rise almost immediately, filling the space, softening the edges of everything.
I step under the spray and flinch as the hot water hits my skin.
"Too hot?" she asks.
"No," I say quietly. "It's fine."
She joins me a second later, still fully clothed at first, standing just outside the stream. Then she steps in too, shoes gone, sleeves already pushed up, hair starting to dampen.
It's not sexual.
It's grounding.
The water hits my shoulders and runs down my back, and for the first time since the crash, my muscles start to loosen. Just a little.
I close my eyes.
"I only have forty-eight hours," I say suddenly.
She nods. "I know."
The water drums steadily against the tile, loud enough to give us privacy even from ourselves.
"I keep counting it," I admit. "Every hour. Every minute. Like if I track it closely enough, I can control it."
"You don't have to control everything," she says softly.
