I’ve been shot at. I’ve had knives pulled on me. I’ve watched brothers bleed.
None of it felt like that.
That wasn’t fear. It was like something had been ripped clean out of me before I even knew I owned it.
She turns when she realizes I haven’t followed.
“You okay?” she asks softly.
No tremor. No doubt.
She’s steady.
“I thought you were gone,” I say.
The words come out rougher than I intend.
“I know.”
“I saw that van and I couldn’t breathe.”
She doesn’t rush to fill the silence.
She steps closer instead.
“I wasn’t afraid,” she says quietly. “I knew you were coming.”
“That doesn’t change what I felt.”
She studies me for a long second, reading what I’m not saying.
“I didn’t break,” she says.
“I know.”
“You didn’t fail.”
My jaw tightens.
“I left you exposed.”
“You trusted me.”
“That’s not the same.”
She reaches up and presses her palm flat against my chest.
Right over my heart.
“It’s still beating,” she says. “And so is mine.”
That does something dangerous to me.
Something soft.
I slide my hand over hers, holding it there.
“You don’t get taken again,” I tell her quietly. “Not from me.”
