He looks up.
“Carly,” he says, and hearing my name in his voice feels strange and steady at the same time, “I’ve been in danger before. This isn’t new.”
“But I am.”
He studies me for a long moment.
“You showing up doesn’t make you a burden,” he says. “It makes you someone who needed a door opened.”
That world-tilting feeling flickers again.
Dangerous.
Stupid.
Comforting.
I look down at my bowl so he doesn’t see it on my face.
He’s still a stranger. I don’t know his favorite color. I don’t know how he takes his coffee. I don’t know what makes him laugh.
A part of me wants to.
But I do know he stood between me and those men without blinking.
I know he cleaned my wounds and heated stew like it mattered.
My body loosens a fraction more.
Just a fraction.
“I’m still scared,” I admit.
“Good,” he says.
I blink.
“Fear keeps you sharp,” he adds. “Panic gets you hurt. You’re past panic.”
I nod slowly.
He stands and picks up our bowls. “You’re taking the bed,” he says. “I’ll crash on the couch.”
I blink at him. “It’s your house.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Outside, the night presses in. The trees, the road, the dark that almost swallowed me.
Inside, he’s already clearing space for me like it’s settled.
Since the door locked behind me at Red Hot Velvet, I’ve felt like something being hunted.
Right now, I’m not bracing for hands on me.
I’m not running.
I’m still scared.
