Six weeks. She survived on the streets for six weeks, and she couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen at the time. The thought makes me feel sick.
Impulsively, I reach across the table and put my hand over hers. The moment our skin makes contact, I feel it—that electric awareness that’s been humming between us since the first time I saw her at the Barrett family dinner. Her hand is small under mine, warm and slightly trembling. My heart kicks up itsrhythm, and I have to remind myself that this isn’t about the attraction I feel every time I’m near her. This is about letting her know she’s not alone anymore.
But Heaven help me, I’m aware of everything. The softness of her skin. The way her fingers are curled slightly, like she’s holding herself together. The fact that she hasn’t pulled away yet, which feels like a victory and a responsibility all at once.
I want to turn my hand over, thread our fingers together, hold on to her in a way that’s more than just comfort. I want to pull her closer, wrap my arms around her, promise her that she’ll never have to be scared or hungry or alone again. But I can’t. Not now. Not when she’s this vulnerable, when she’s just trusted me with something so painful.
So I just keep my hand there, steady and gentle, trying to pour everything I can’t say into that simple touch.
She goes still, her eyes flicking up to meet mine. I half expect her to pull away, to throw up those walls again and shut me out. But she doesn’t. She just looks at me with those brilliant blue eyes that are trying so hard not to show how scared she still is.
“I believe in you,” I say, and I mean it with every fiber of my being. “With cooking skills like this, you’re well on your way to independence. You’re going to win that scholarship, Kiera. I know you will.”
Her throat works as she swallows. “You can’t know that.”
“Yes, I can. Because I’ve tasted your food. Because I’ve seen the way you think about flavors and presentation. Because you’re talented and hardworking and you actually care about what you’re doing.” I squeeze her hand gently. “You’re going to make it. And you’re never going to have to sleep under a bridge again.”
She blinks rapidly, and I realize she’s fighting back tears. But she doesn’t pull her hand away. If anything, she turns her palm up slightly, letting our hands fit together more naturally.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
We sit like that for a moment, hands joined across the table, the kimchi fried rice growing cold in our bowls. I want to tell her that she can talk to me about anything, that I’ll listen without judgment, that I’d do just about anything to help her. But I don’t. Because words are easy, and Kiera needs more than words. She needs proof through action that I’m going to stick around.
Her phone buzzes on the table beside her bowl, breaking the moment. She pulls her hand back and picks up her phone. I watch as her eyes widen, scanning whatever message she just received.
“Oh my gosh,” she breathes.
“What is it?”
“It’s the apartment.” She looks up at me, and her whole face has transformed. The sadness is gone, replaced by genuine excitement. “The studio above the bookstore. They got my application. I passed!” She reads more of the message, her smile growing wider. “They want to know if I can walk through it tonight. Like, in an hour.”
“That’s great!” I can’t help but grin at her enthusiasm. “You should definitely go.”
“I know, I should, it’s just—” The excitement dims slightly, replaced by uncertainty. She bites her bottom lip. “I have no idea what to look for when walking through an apartment. What if there’s something wrong with it that I don’t notice? What if I agree to rent it and then realize it’s a disaster?” She looks at me, and there’s vulnerability in her expression that she’s trying to hide. “I’ve never done this before. I don’t know how to... adult.”
The request is there in her eyes before she says it out loud, and something warm blooms in my chest.
“Would you—” She hesitates, then pushes forward. “Would you be willing to walk through it with me? I know it’s asking a lot, and you’re probably busy, but I could really use someonewho knows what they’re doing. Someone who’s rented places before and knows what to watch out for.”
I don’t even have to think about it. “Yes.”
“Yeah?”
“Absolutely.” I stand up and start gathering our bowls. “Let me just clean this up real quick?—”
“River, no, I should?—”
“Five minutes,” I say, already heading to the kitchen. “It’ll take five minutes, and then we can go look at your apartment.”
She follows me into the kitchen, and I can feel her hovering uncertainly while I rinse the bowls. Kiera grabs a pan and takes over the sink, rinsing the cookware, and we fall into an easy rhythm. She scrapes and rinses the dishes, and I load everything into the dishwasher. When we finish she’s fidgeting with her ponytail again, that nervous tell I’m learning to recognize.
“Thank you,” she says. “For coming with me. For... everything.”
“You don’t have to thank me.” I grab my keys from the counter. “Come on. Let’s go see your new place.”
As we head out to my car, I catch myself watching her from the corner of my eye. She’s excited and nervous and trying to hide both, and all I can think about is how wrong it is that someone like her—someone talented and hardworking and good—had to sleep under a bridge for six weeks.
But she’s not under a bridge anymore. She’s getting her own apartment. She’s working toward her dreams. She’s letting me help, even just a little bit.
