She exhales slowly, then steps closer on her own, curling her fingers into my shirt – not out of weakness, but choice, like she’s decided contact is the smarter option. The decision steadies both of us, and once she’s that close I finally let myself move my hands, slow and deliberate, palms open as I trace the line of her arms, not grabbing, not pulling, just checking. Wrist first – careful around the bruise – then forearm, elbow, shoulder. She tenses once when my fingers brush her ribs, breath catching before she schools it away.
“There,” I murmur.
She sighs through her nose. “I’m not broken.”
“I didn’t say you were,” I reply, and shift my hands lower, firming my grip just enough to ground her, to make my presence something she can lean into if she needs to. My thumb brushes the edge of the mark at her throat, gentle enough not to hurt, precise enough to promise I’ve seen it. “These,” I add quietly, “aren’t nothing.”
“They hurt less than they look.”
“That’s not comforting.”
Her lips twitch despite herself. Outside, the voices have gone quieter – tense, waiting. They know better than to push when I don’t answer.
“You don’t get to disappear like that,” I say.
She tilts her head. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I get to say what it does to me.”
Her eyes sharpen. “Then say it.”
I don’t look away. “It fractures everything. My thinking. My restraint. My ability to tell where the danger ends and I do.”
Her breath stutters, just once. “That sounds unhealthy.”
“It’s honest.”
She studies me for a long moment, then drops her gaze – not to the floor, but to the space between us. Her hand leaves my shirt and settles lower, palm flattening briefly against her stomach, not protective exactly, but aware.
“They confirmed it,” she says quietly.
“Yes.”
Her throat works. “I didn’t want you finding out like that.”
“I didn’t want to find out without you at all,” I reply. “But knowing doesn’t change this.”
“What does it change?”
I consider the answer before I give it. “It changes the margin for error.”
She huffs a breath that might have been a laugh if it weren’t threaded with nerves. “You always talk like everything is a calculation.”
“Because pretending it isn’t gets people hurt.”
Her fingers linger there another second before she pulls her hand away. “I’m not fragile,” she says, almost reflexively.
“I know,” I say. “That’s what worries me.”
She looks up at me then, really looks, like she’s measuring the cost of standing this close to someone like me and deciding whether she’s willing to pay it. “You’re wound tight,” she says. “Like if I press in the wrong place you’ll break.”
“Then don’t press,” I say.
Her gaze drops anyway, to my chest, my throat. She steps forward and presses her palm flat over my heart, steady and deliberate. I inhale sharply. “Here?” she asks softly.
“That’s not a safe place.”
She keeps her hand there. “I know.”
