Rosa’s eyes never left him, even as he struggled to find his balance. It hurt her to watch him like this—so determined, so stubborn, even though every inch of his body was protesting. She could see the effort it took just for him to stand, and yet, he didn’t stop. The way he kept pushing, despite the obvious pain, made her heart ache with a mixture of pride and worry.

She wanted to say something, to tell him it was okay to rest, that he didn’t have to prove anything to her. But the words wouldn’t come. Not right now. She knew that look in his eyes—the one that said he was fighting more than just the physical pain. He was fighting everything that had happened, everything he feared might come again. And maybe, just maybe, he was fighting for her, too. For them.

"Don’t push yourself too hard," she finally said, her voice low, almost a whisper, but it held the weight of everything she couldn’t say. She could see the cracks in his facade, the small tremors in his hands, and it made her want to do more than just watch.

She took a step closer, not touching him yet, but close enough that he would know she was there. "You don’t have to do this alone, Caden," she added, her gaze soft but firm. "I’m here."

He might not admit it, might not even acknowledge it yet, but she saw through the tough exterior. She saw him for what he really was: hurting, vulnerable, and still, somehow, trying to hold everything together.

"You will be alright," she said, the words more for him than for herself, her tone steady, even if her heart wasn’t.

Caden’s gaze flickered to Rosa for just a second, but he quickly looked away, his jaw tightening. He knew what she was trying to do—offering comfort, offering her help—but he couldn’t let himself lean into it. Not yet. Not when the weight of everything still sat heavy on his chest, making each breath feel like a battle.

“I’m fine,” he muttered again, the words now a broken record, but they were all he could manage. He forced his legs to move, despite the tremors that rippled through them, and took a step toward the kitchen. Every step felt like dragging a boulder behind him, but he kept going, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor, focusing on nothing but the next movement.

He wasn’t sure if Rosa’s words had done anything to him. The ache in his chest was too loud, the need to prove he could stand, could move, could be something more than the broken mess he felt, drowned out everything else. But hearing her—seeing her—had shaken something loose. Something he wasn’t ready to face.

The cold air of the cabin bit at his skin as he limped past the living room, the familiar scent of coffee and pine filling the space. The kitchen was just ahead, and with each step, he forced himself to ignore the overwhelming pulse of weakness threatening to take him down. He couldn’t give in. Not yet.

His hand gripped the edge of the counter when he finally reached it, the cold surface grounding him, even as the world around him tilted slightly. His knees buckled a bit, but he caught himself before he could collapse. The pain in his legs was a sharp reminder that he wasn’t as fine as he kept telling himself, but the stubbornness was still there, burning hot beneath the surface.

He didn’t turn back. Didn’t look at Rosa. Not yet. Instead, he reached for the coffee pot, his movements stiff, deliberate, trying to keep some semblance of control. But the tremor in his hand was undeniable, the jagged edges of his fractured pride a little more visible with each shaky motion.

"I’m fine," he muttered again, under his breath, as if saying it would somehow make it true. But it didn’t. And somewhere deep down, he knew Rosa could hear the lie in his voice, even if he couldn’t admit it aloud.

The cup in his hand was heavier than he expected, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t going to stop. He wouldn’t.

Caden's hand shot out instinctively, but it was too late. The mug hit the floor, shattering the calm and spilling coffee everywhere. His breath caught in his throat as the mess spread out like a silent accusation. Panic twisted in his gut. Oh no, no no no. He couldn’t help it. The words started spilling out, quick and frantic, his voice cracking.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” He was already scrambling for a towel, his hands shaking so badly he could barely grip it. His heart pounded in his chest, like his father’s angry words were right there, pressing against him.

Don’t screw this up again, Caden.

The memory hit him hard. His father’s voice, the sharp disappointment in it. The fear of his own mistakes always felt like a weight, a constant pressure. Clean it up. Don’t make me repeat myself.

He wiped at the floor as fast as he could, trying to mop up the mess, but the more he moved, the more frantic it became. His hands were clumsy, slick with sweat, and he couldn’t get it right. The coffee spread farther, taunting him. His breaths grew shallow, his pulse racing, and the apology kept slipping out in broken, rapid whispers.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please... I’ll fix it.”

Eventually, the towel hit the floor with a heavy thud. There was no fixing it, no taking back the mess. He straightened up, the panic starting to drown him, the weight of everything pressing down on him like a boulder.

His legs were trembling, and he reached for the bottle of pills on the counter, his fingers trembling as he twisted the cap off. He took two, swallowing them dry, his throat tight. The world around him blurred, the edges softening as the pills began to settle into his system, but it didn’t erase the feeling that had been clawing at him.

He took a slow breath, trying to steady himself. The overwhelming need to get away from the mess, from the feeling of suffocating pressure, pushed him toward the couch. His legs were unsteady as he limped back, each step like dragging a weight behind him, but he had to get there. Had to lie down, to just be still for a moment.

He collapsed onto the couch, but his body didn’t cooperate. His knees buckled, and he caught himself with a hard, ungraceful motion, gripping the armrest with all his strength just to stay upright. His head spun, but he managed to stay on his feet, just barely.

Finally, he sank into the cushions, his body shaking as if it had finally let go of the tension. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, though the storm inside still churned. He wasn’t fine. He wasn’t sure he ever would be. But for now, he was still here. Still holding on.