"We’ll take her back to the penthouse. Micah can monitor her there."
Zora's eyes snap to his. The wall is back up. "No. Take me to my place. I'm not staying in that golden cage."
Reid looks like he wants to argue, his mouth forming the start of a protest, but Dameon puts a hand on his shoulder and shakes his head. They know the limit. If we push her now, she won't come back at all.
"I'll take her." I don't give them a choice. I reach down and slide one arm under her knees and the other behind her back. I lift her in one motion, she’s lighter than she looks, but her body is solid muscle. She tenses for a second then relaxes, her hand gripping the fabric of my t-shirt. The smell of honey and vanilla is a thick cloud around us, making my head swim.
I carry her out to my truck and settle her into the passenger seat. The drive to her part of town is a blur of stoplights and gridlock. The streets get narrower and the buildings get older as we move away from the high-rises. Her apartment is in a brick walk-up that has seen better decades.
I kill the engine and hop out of the cab. The street is quiet, the air thick with the smell of damp asphalt and street food. I walk around to the passenger side and pull the door open. Zora looks at me, her brown face tight with a mix of pain and pride.
"I can hobble up. Put me down."
"Not happening." I reach in and slide my arms under her, lifting her clear of the seat. She tenses for a second, then drops her head against my shoulder. The honey and vanilla scent is a cloud between us. I kick the truck door shut with my heel and turn toward the building.
It is an old brick walk-up with an external iron staircase that looks like it hasn't seen a coat of paint in a decade. I start the climb. My boots clang against the metal treads, the sound echoing off the narrow alley walls. Three flights of stairs. The air is warm and stagnant in the space. By the time we hit the third floor landing, my lungs are on fire, but I don't let the strain show. I shift her weight so I can reach the handle.
"The keys, Zora."
She fishes them out of her pocket and fumbles with the lock. The door swings open into her apartment. It’s a mess. Stacks of folders sit on the kitchen table. Half-empty coffee mugs cover every surface. A pile of laundry takes up the chair in the corner. It is the apartment of someone who spends eighteen hours a day trying to save the world and zero hours taking care of herself. It is the opposite of the sterile penthouse floors.
I carry her into the small living room and set her down on the sofa. It’s an old piece with mismatched cushions. I grab a couple of pillows from her bedroom and prop her leg up.
"Stay put. I'm going to find some ice."
"Theo, you don't have to stay. I can manage."
I walk into the kitchen and start opening cabinets.
"You can't even reach the sink without falling over. I'm staying until you've eaten and the swelling goes down."
I spend the next hour moving through the small space. I wash the mugs and put them away. I stack the folders on the table by date, grouping the housing grants away from the legal briefs. I find a bag of frozen peas in the back of the freezer and wrap it in a dish towel, then place it on her ankle. She watches me from the couch, her expression unreadable.
I pull out my phone and order enough Chinese food to last her three days.
She sighs. "You're hovering."
"I'm organizing. There’s a difference." I pick up a stray sock from the floor and toss it toward the laundry pile. This is the first time I’ve been in her space since the night we begged her to take us back. It’s small and crowded, but it feels more like her than the penthouse ever will. I like the chaos of it.
"The food will be here in twenty minutes. I'm going to finish the dishes."
Zora shifts on the cushion, her eyes tracking my movements. "You're done, Theo. Go home."
I don't turn the water off. "Not until you've had a meal. Close your eyes and lean your head back."
She lets out a short huff but doesn't move. I turn the tap on and let the water run hot. I can feel her eyes on my back. The honey and vanilla scent is filling the room now, mixing with the steam from the sink. The noise in my head stops. I just need this. It is enough.
A knock at the door breaks the quiet. I grab the bags of Chinese food from the delivery guy. The steam from the cartons fogs the plastic in my grip. I walk into the kitchen and pull out the white boxes. The smell of ginger and soy sauce fills the small room, mixing with the honey and vanilla scent that belongs to Zora.
I expect her to tell me to leave the bags on the counter and get out. That has been the routine for months. She treats me like a biological requirement, something to handle so she can get back to her blueprints. But when I look toward the living room, she watches me from the sofa. Her eyes aren't guarded for once.
"You might as well stay and eat. I can't finish half of this."
I stay still for a second with a carton of orange chicken in my hand. She isn't checking the clock. She isn't looking for the door. My chest tightens, but it is just plain relief. She stopped pushing for a second. She let the wall down just enough for me to see through the cracks.
"I'll dish it up."
I find two plates in her cabinet. One has a chip on the rim and the other is a different shade of blue. I pile rice and chicken onto her plate and grab the extra sauce she likes. I bring the food over and set it on the coffee table near her hand and take a seat on the floor with my back against the cushions near her feet. I grab the remote and scroll through the options.
