“We’re all staring.”
“You’re staringdifferently.”
I don’t have a comeback for that. He’s not wrong.
“She’s small,” Rane says.
No one answers. I watch the way her steps land, deliberate and sure, no wasted movement. The way her clothes hang loose. The sharpness of her cheekbones. The shadows under her eyes.
She’s been surviving. You can see it in every line of her.
“Something happened to her,” Vaelor says.
Locke makes a sound. Low. Not a word.
I glance at him. His jaw is tight, eyes fixed on her, and there’s something in his face I’ve never seen before. Something that makes me glad I’m not whoever hurt her.
“Locke,” Rane says carefully.
“I’m fine.”
He’s not. None of us are. But he’s the one who looks like he’s about to put his fist through the glass.
She’s almost to our walkway now. The woman beside her—Zoe—is gesturing at the building, explaining something. She nods, but I can tell she’s not listening. Her eyes are moving. Cataloging. Assessing.
Smart. Careful. Alone for a long time.
I want to know everything about her. I want to know what she likes for breakfast and what makes her laugh and what her voice sounds like when she’s not bracing for impact.
I want her to look at me.
“Kyron.” Vaelor’s voice, quiet. “Breathe.”
Right. Breathing. That’s a thing people do.
Zoe stops at the edge of our walkway. She’s saying something—probably the standard orientation speech, here’s where you’ll be staying, here are the people you’ll be living with, good luck with your new life that you didn’t ask for.
Her shoulders tighten. I watch her take a breath. Steel herself.
Then Zoe turns and walks away, and the woman who’s about to change everything is standing alone on the path, staring at our front door.
My hand is on the window frame. I don’t remember putting it there.
“Someone should let her in,” Rane says.
“Give her a second.” Locke’s voice is quiet. “She needs a second.”
So we wait. Watch her stand there. Watch her make the decision to walk forward even though everything in her posture says she wants to run.
She doesn’t run.
She walks to the door.
“I’ll get it,” Locke says, already moving.
Part of me wants to argue. Part of me is glad I don’t have to be the first thing she sees. I don’t trust my face right now.
The rest of us stay at the window like the lovesick idiots we apparently are.
