"It is." I glanced at her. "Where areyoufrom?"
She gave me a wry look. "Here. Unfortunately."
We kept walking, the silence settling into something less sharp.
She pointed at the dark sky. "Do you miss it? Home?"
More than I ever let myself think about. The mountains. My mother's cooking. My sister racing me across the fields. The way the wind smelled like pine instead of diesel and dust.
"Yeah," I said. "I do."
"And yet you're here," she murmured.
"Someone has to fly the food," I said. "And the city… it grows on you."
She snorted. "Like mold."
A laugh barked out of me before I could stop it. God, it felt goodto laugh.
We turned a corner, and it hit me where we were headed. I recognized the pattern of bombed-out walls, the sag of the broken rooflines, the street lamp that leaned just a little to the left. I'd walked her most of the way home the night I rescued her.
My steps slowed.
"You live near here," I said quietly.
She nodded, eyes flicking toward the ruins. "Yes. Don't worry. You don't have to come all the way."
"I want to," I said before I could stop myself.
She looked up at me, shocked, but not displeased.
"We're close," she murmured.
Closer than she knew. Closer thanIshould be.
But the street didn't feel dangerous tonight. Her presence didn't feel dangerous. Only the way my chest ached when I looked at her.
This time, for once, I didn't push it away.
"So, Inga," I said softly, "can I walk you the rest of the way?"
She hesitated. Then, so quiet I almost didn't hear it. "Yes."
The walk passed too quickly. Every step with her felt… easy. Even the silences. Especially the silences. I kept trying to memorize the sound of her breath, the way her fingers brushed her coat, the way she glanced up at me like she wasn't sure if she should trust me, but wanted to try anyway.
She stopped suddenly and pointed into a cluster of half-collapsed walls and twisted beams.
"This is me," she said softly.
I stared. "That?"
She nodded. My brows drew together. "Inga… that isn't a building. That's?—"
"Ruins," she finished. "I know."
"It's dangerous."
She shrugged one shoulder, weary but resigned. "It's… private."
