Page 38 of Dozer

Dozer doesn't move. Doesn't look away from the fence. Doesn't tell me he's sorry. That alone makes it possible to keep going.

"Manage me," I continue. "People kept telling me how to grieve. When to grieve. Whether I was doing it right. Like grief was a checklist somebody else got to grade." My throat tightens. "I hated it so much I stopped letting anyone help with anything. Ever. For years." I stare at the gravel beneath my boots. "I got very good at doing things myself so nobody could tell me I was doing them wrong."

Dozer is quiet for several seconds. Then he says, "This isn't that."

I look at him.

"I'm not managing you. I'm keeping you alive until it's safe to move. There's a difference."

"Feels similar from down here."

"It's not." His eyes finally meet mine, steady, uncompromising. "You're not helpless. You're outgunned in one specific category, right now, in this exact parking lot. That's not the same thing as being helpless."

Something catches in my chest.

"Tomorrow it'll be a different category," he continues, "and you'll be the one keeping both of us alive."

I stare at him, his words land harder than I expect. Not because they are soft, but because there's no pity in them, no attempt to make me feel better about being scared. He just gives me the truth. And somehow the truth is better. He isn't asking me to become smaller so he can protect me. He's telling me that I can be exactly who I am and still let somebody else carry a piece of the weight when it isn't mine to carry. Nobody has ever said it quite like that. Maybe nobody has ever understood that this is what I've been fighting against all these years. I’m not fighting being protected, I’m fighting being controlled and there’s a difference.

"Okay," I whisper.

He nods once. We wait.

Twelve minutes, maybe fourteen pass by. Time stretches strangely when every second could contain a decision that changes everything. Every move is a life-or-death choice. Dozer doesn't move much. His attention stays locked on the building, his weapon steady, his body angled just enough that if something comes from the wrong direction, he'll be between it and me before either of us has time to think. His shoulder stays pressed against mine. Neither of us moves away.

Eventually, his voice cuts through the quiet. "Clear."

He rises in one smooth motion and offers me a hand. I look at it for half a second before taking it. His fingers close around mine. He pulls me to my feet, and for one brief second, we're closer than either of us needs to be. His gaze drops to my mouth. Mine does the same. It lasts maybe a heartbeat, maybe less, but I feel it. The sexual tension between us is there. It’s a shift in the air, the awareness of the other person and the question neither of us are willing to broach.

Then he lets go.

"Movement stopped," he says. "Might've been nothing. We're not testing that theory here."

"New car?"

"New car."

I nod. "Excellent. Because I was really starting to get attached to this one."

"You don't even know what kind of car it is."

"I know. That's how emotionally available I am." I shrug. He’s not wrong. I haven’t paid a lot of attention to the make or models of the cars we’ve been switching between.

That almost-smile appears again. "Come on."

I let him lead the way this time. No argument, no need to prove I could've found my own path through the lot just as fast. Somewhere in the last fourteen minutes, hiding behind a dumpster with my whole nervous system on fire, I've learned something I didn't expect to learn about the difference between being managed and being protected.

I still hate being helpless. I probably always will. But I'm starting to understand that accepting protection doesn't make me helpless. Maybe trust isn't giving somebody else control. Maybe it's knowing exactly when to hand them the part of the job they can carry better than I can and trusting they'll hand it back when it's mine again.

That is new and terrifying. And, if I'm being completely honest with myself, a little bit addictive.

I follow Dozer toward the new car. I don't look back at the rooftop. I don't need to. For the first time since this nightmare started, I know exactly where I stand.

Beside him. Not behind him. Not beneath him.

Beside him.

And that distinction matters more than I want to admit because it’s exactly where he wants me to be.