I start walking.
Not because I’m trying to drag her. Because the sooner I get her out of the middle of this crowd, the sooner she can breathe. The sooner I can figure out what the hell I’m doing.
She stumbles a half-step to keep up.
“Slow down,” she says, voice tight.
I stop immediately and turn slightly. She’s staring at the floor like she’s trying to hold herself together by force.
“I wanted to say,” she starts, then stops.
Her fingers flex in mine.
Her throat works like she’s swallowing words she can’t afford.
I don’t push.
I don’t ask.
But I watch her like a hawk, and a theory forms in my head with the kind of certainty that makes my blood run colder.
She’s running from something.
Or someone.
Her eyes flick up, meet mine, then flick away again like she’s afraid I’ll see too much.
Too late.
My protective instincts don’t wake up.
They roar.
It’s primitive. Immediate. Ugly in its intensity.
And it lands on one simple truth.
She’s mine to protect.
I don’t know her name yet.
I don’t know what she’s done or what’s been done to her.
But she looks like she’s been holding her breath for a long time, and my body decides, without consulting my brain, that I’m not letting anyone make her do that under my roof.
I tighten my grip on her hand, gently.
“Come on,” I say.
She nods once, small.
We step back out into the festival air, and she draws a breath like she’s been underwater.
There’s a booth nearby with flowers, a little pop-up shop tucked between hot cocoa and handmade scarves.
It’s ridiculous.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
