“Door’s behind you. Go inside.”
She looks at the building. Then the trees. Then me.
Like she’s trying to figure out where the trick is.
There isn’t one.
I wheel the bike around back and guide it into the concealed bay until the wall panel swallows the last shine of metal.
One latch. One lock. Then another.
Then I go inside.
Ruby is standing in the middle of the room like she doesn’t trust anything enough to touch it.
The fireplace is cold. The bed is too small for someone trying to recover from terror. The air smells like old pine and smoke that never fully left.
She wraps her arms around herself.
That red dress is too short. Too tight. Made to make men hungry.
It makes me furious.
I keep my face blank.
I keep my hands to myself.
Her eyes track every move I make like she’s waiting for the shift, the second the mask slips.
I know that look.
I wore it for years.
Foster homes teach fast. Which footsteps mean trouble. Which voices mean pain. Which smiles mean you’re about to owe somebody something.
I learned that before I ever had a bed that stayed mine.
I clear my throat and nod toward the chair by the fireplace.
“Sit.”
She hesitates.
I soften it. “Please.”
That gets her moving.
She sits on the edge of the chair, posture tight, knees together, hands clenched in her lap.
I cross to the kitchenette. Fill the kettle. Flick it on. Reach for the tin of tea bags I keep here because hot liquid does something useful to a nervous system.
Tells the body it can stop running.
I don’t look at her while I do it.
I let her have the space.
Behind my ribs, my heart is still throwing punches.
