She stops in the doorway and turns to us. “You don’t have to stay.”
“We know,” I say.
“Which is why we’re offering,” Gideon adds.
Her shoulders slump. “I feel like a disaster.”
“You’re a person who had a very long day,” I correct.
She bites her lip, then nods once. “Fine. But if either of you tries anything, I’m kicking you in the balls. I can’t handle anything else right now.” Her eyes flick between us. “I mean that.”
That hits right where it should. I nod. “We’re not trying anything. You have my word.”
“Mine too,” Gideon says.
Some of the tension leaves her posture.
“Can one of you open the top drawer of the dresser?” she asks. “I want shorts and a shirt.”
I move to the dresser and pull open the top drawer. Cotton and soft fabric, folded mostly neatly. I pick out a pair of loose shorts and an oversized t-shirt that reads Support Your Local Witches.
“This work?” I ask.
She manages a tired smile. “Very on brand.”
She sways a little when she reaches for the clothes. I step in before she face-plants.
“Let us help,” I say quietly.
Her eyes search mine for a long second. “I really am okay,” she murmurs.
“I know,” I say. “That isn’t the point.”
She exhales. “Okay. No being weird about it.”
“Never,” Gideon says.
We are absolutely being weird about it in our own heads, but not in the way she means. Not in a predatory way. In aholy shit, I care about you and I’m trying to pretend this is just logisticsway.
“Turn around,” I say.
She does. The zipper on her dress runs down the back. Her hair tumbles forward when Gideon lifts it, his fingers careful on her neck. I pull the zipper down slowly, exposing the line of her spine, the smooth skin between her shoulder blades. I allow myself one breath, one second of quiet appreciation, and then I step back.
“Ready?” I ask.
She nods and holds the front of the dress. Gideon and I each take a side at the top and ease it down her body. When the dress pools at her feet, she steps out, and I avert my eyes just enough to give her the illusion of privacy while still able to catch her if she stumbles.
She pulls the shirt over her head as fast as possible, then wiggles into the shorts. When she’s decent, she tosses the party dress onto the chair in the corner.
“Here,” I say, smoothing the blanket down on the bed. “Sit.”
She crawls onto the mattress and sinks into the pillows, hair falling around her face. She looks small in a way she never does at the club. Not weak. Just tired. Human.
Gideon adjusts the blanket over her legs. His touch is gentle enough that it almost hurts to watch.
“You need to drink water before you fall asleep,” he says, like a reflex.
“I will,” she murmurs, clearly not planning to move.
