Even though her quiet words ripped into his chest.

“I used to have friends. I used to have a fiancé, even.” She said that with a wry smile and an arch of those winged eyebrows, like she thought that might surprise him. It did, and it didn’t. She wasn’t a social person, exactly, but she was damned hypnotic. Of course she’d had friends. And yet, apparently, she’d also lost them.

“I suppose the end of all that started when I got pneumonia,” she said, hooking her arm around a nearby cushion, pressing it to her chest. “Apparently, I nearly died. All I remember is how it felt.” He wondered if she noticed she was squeezing that cushion, the sort of vulnerable move she usually avoided like the plague. Probably not. In the space of a few seconds, she’d somehow become so distant.

“My bones were like eggshells. There was this cold, wet toad squatting on my chest, too heavy and chilling for me to breathe right.” She said it so steadily, but he saw a hint of remembered panic in her eyes. “I remember being so angry with myself, because it was so silly, the way I got sick. I used to play netball, and I’d been nervous about a particular game. I stayed out in the rain with some of my friends, running drills. We won the match, but I was in the hospital a few days later. Obviously, I survived,” she quipped, as if he needed a reminder of her continued existence.

He didn’t laugh. “But … ?”

“But,” she went on grimly, “my body was different. The weight on my chest, and the cold—they faded, as I got better. But my bones still felt fragile. It never went away. Over the months, I noticed more and more problems. I was exhausted all the time. I got these awful headaches for no reason. And there was the pain—always, so much pain. I’d go for a walk and feel like I’d worked every muscle to the point of tearing. If I spent too long on my laptop, my hands would hurt so badly I cried. I started feeling afraid of my own body, like it was a torture chamber I’d been trapped inside.

“But when I asked for help, no one would listen. I’m lucky my family believed me, because for years, they were the only ones. I remember one doctor asked to speak with my father, even though I was an adult. He told my dad I was physically fine, but they should look into my mental health.” She laughed, but the sound was too loud, too edgy, grating against his skin.

Red curled his hands into useless fists in his lap, fighting the urge to touch her. To stroke her hair or pull her into a hug, the way he might if she were someone—anyone—else. Usually, he offered comfort to help other people. But she looked so determinedly brittle right now, eyes sharp, jaw hard, chin up, he knew comfort wasn’t what she wanted. He’d only be doing it for himself, because he could see how trapped she’d felt, and it made him feel hollow inside.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” she said dryly, “my mental health was a mess at that point. And having actual medical professionals dismiss me really didn’t help, so …” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment.

“Of course it didn’t,” he said, his voice rough, almost rusty, with the anger he didn’t want to show. “Whether something bad is coming from your body or your brain, it makes no difference. Still feels like shit, right? Still hurts. Still needs fixing. They shouldn’t have dismissed you, even if it was in your head. When it comes down to it, everything we feel is in our heads.”

She opened her eyes. Wet her lips. Nodded slowly, and looked a little bit less tortured. When she spoke again, her voice was smooth and arch and familiar. “I do hate to admit when you’re right, but you happen to have stumbled upon a sensible opinion, there.”

Somehow, for her, he dredged up a smile. “Must be a blue moon. Keep going.”

She swallowed so hard, he heard it. “Right. Yes. Well. I was diagnosed, in the end. My consultant believes major physical trauma can trigger conditions like mine. She thinks it was the pneumonia. But that doesn’t really matter. What matters is that, for years, I had no idea what was really happening to my body. No painkillers, no physical therapy, no medical support whatsoever. So I did what I had to do. I developed my own coping mechanisms. The problem is, they weren’t particularly healthy.”

He wondered what it was like, to cope constantly. Tiring, probably. Stressful, definitely. Doing it alone didn’t sound healthy at all.

“I avoided anything that might make me feel worse,” she said. “I was afraid.” No inflection. No emotion. As if she was reading someone else’s story from a sheet of paper. “I quit netball. I quit my postgrad degree. I stopped going out with my friends. I didn’t stay up late because sleep was too precious. I refused to make plans because I never knew when my body might force me to change them. My friends disappeared one by one. I suppose my problems made them feel guilty.”

“And your fiancé?” Red asked softly.

“Oh, Henry,” she laughed. “He lost patience almost immediately. He didn’t believe me.”

“What?” Red had been trying to stay calm throughout this story, to avoid showing his own reactions in case they affected what she chose to share. But he couldn’t have hidden his disgust in that moment, not even if he’d pulled out his own fucking tongue.

She shrugged, but a smile teased the edges of her mouth, as if she found his obvious horror amusing. “There was no blood test or scan or injury to prove that I was really in pain. He was very logical, you see. He needed evidence and I had none.”

“Your word isn’t evidence? Your feelings aren’t evidence?” Red demanded, his tone harsher than he’d intended. But he couldn’t help it. He’d seen the change in Chloe when her pain got too serious to handle. Fuck, he saw her now, when she was trying to seem fine but was clearly exhausted. Black circles under her beautiful eyes, weariness clinging to her like a shadow. How the fuck could someone who planned to marry her just ignore all that?

“Henry thought I was malingering,” she told him. “That I was being pathetic, I was too demanding, I needed too much support.” Her lip curled, displaying a flash of anger that had been absent so far, one he was actually relieved to see now. “He disappeared on me without much remorse, but I consider that a lucky escape.”

So did Red. “He doesn’t sound like marriage material.”

Her eyes slid to his, sparkling with humor. “No.”

“He sounds like the type of guy who finds out his wife has cancer and starts screwing his secretary to relieve the stress.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling now.

“Fuck him.”

“I pity whoever is,” she smirked. Then she waved a hand and the moment of camaraderie passed. “I’ve learned how to manage my symptoms, now, of course. I have medication, physiotherapy, cognitive therapy. I’m fine, really. But I feel like a part of me hasn’t caught up with that. Like I’m still afraid of myself. That’s what the list is for. To help me get my bravery back.”

She began that speech sounding like her usual self, but toward the end she started to mumble, her voice growing smaller, her eyes skating away from his. Like she was embarrassed to say the most badass thing he’d ever heard.

He couldn’t let that stand. “Hey.”

She pursed her lips and glared at him without much heat. “What?”