The sun is setting, painting the skyline orange and gold. Lights flicker on across the buildings, one by one,. The city is waking up for the night.
“Kai?”
I turn too fast. The crutch slips. For one horrible second, I'm falling, arms pinwheeling, the floor rushing up to meet me.
Hands catch my arm. Steady me.
Emma.
She's still in her work clothes, slightly rumpled, shadows under her eyes. Exhausted. Beautiful.
Easy,” she says, grip firm on my elbow. “I've got you.”
“I had it under control.”
“You were about to eat linoleum.”
“Controlled fall.”
She laughs. The tension in my chest eases. She helps me back toward the bed, one slow step at a time, shoulder tucked under my arm.
“You're getting better with those,” she says.
“Liar.”
“Okay, you're getting slightly less terrible.”
I lower myself onto the edge of the bed, wincing as my ribs protest. Emma doesn't let go right away. Her hand lingers on my arm, warm through the thin hospital gown.
“How was work?” I ask.
Her smile falters. There and gone.
“Fine,” she says. “Boring.”
That voice thing again. The upturn at the end.
I catch her hand before she can pull away. “Emma.”
She meets my eyes. I see the exhaustion. The worry. The weight she's carrying.
“Talk to me,” I say. “Please.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it.
“It's nothing,” she says finally. “Just work stuff. I'm handling it.”
The same words Logan used.
I want to push. I want to demand she tell me everything. I want to fix whatever's hurting her.
Instead, I squeeze her hand. “You know you don't have to handle everything alone, right?”
She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. “So I heard.”
She settles into the chair beside my bed, hand still in mine. We sit in silence as the last of the daylight fades.
I should tell her. About my father. About Hammond. About the name on my chart that she almost saw.
