“You’re not slowing me down.”
Something flickers across her face—relief, maybe disbelief.It’s gone before I can name it.
We start walking.
I stay half a step closer than is strictly necessary—close enough that if she stumbles, if she startles, if she even breathes unevenly, I’ll feel it.But not touching.Not crowding.
The sidewalk is mostly empty.Wren keeps scanning the street, her eyes flicking to every passing car, every shadow, every doorway.
“He isn’t here,” I say.
I don’t know that.But her body needs to hear it.
Wren swallows hard.“I know.”
She doesn’t.
It’s in the tightness of her hands, the way she keeps checking her phone isn’t vibrating even though it’s off.The way her breath speeds up at each corner.
“You want to take the longer route?”I ask.“Quieter.Less traffic.”
She hesitates.“Yes.Actually...yeah.”
We turn down Oakmont instead of Hanover.The street gets quieter immediately.The trees lining the sidewalk muffle sound more than they should.Wren’s shoulders loosen by a fraction.
I track everything out of habit—windows, car engines, distance to crosswalks, people on the opposite sidewalk.I’m not paranoid.I’m practiced.You don’t captain a team without learning to read danger before it arrives.
Wren tucks her hands into her pockets.“Kael?”
“Yeah?”
She licks her lips, voice small.“Does this feel like...too much?”
I stop walking.
She does too, confusion wrinkling between her brows.
“Wren,” I say, “none of this is too much.”
Her throat works.She looks down at the pavement.“I’ve been dealing with him for so long.It feels stupid to finally need people now.”
I move a little closer—not touching, just enough that she feels my presence instead of the air.
“It’s not stupid,” I say.“It’s human.”
Her jaw trembles.“He’s probably not even here.I’m probably just—”
“You’re not imagining things.”
Her breath catches.She looks up slowly, like she’s waiting for anger or disappointment.I give her neither.
“You reacted because your body recognizes a threat,” I say.“You reacted because your history trained you to.Not because you’re weak.”
A tear gathers at the corner of her eye and she wipes it quickly, embarrassed.
“Don’t do that,” I say softly.
“Do what?”
