I’d seen it before. Too many times.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she unlocked the door. The second it clicked open, she stepped inside without looking back.
I followed.
Habit made me turn and lock the door behind us immediately. Outlaw life didn’t allow you to believe you were safe just because you were standing inside four walls.
Emma didn’t check if I was behind her. Didn’t ask. She just walked. Straight through the house like she’d done it a thousand times before.
Stairs. Hallway. Bedroom.
Autopilot.
I stayed a few steps behind, watching the way she held her wrist tight against her chest, like it might fall off if she let go. It was already swelling. Bad.
Yeah, that thing was definitely broken.
She pushed open the bedroom door and stepped inside. A small lamp glowed softly on the nightstand, casting warm light across the room. Old house. Clean. Well-kept. Family photos sat on the dresser—parents, maybe grandparents. Someone had loved this place once.
Emma moved toward the closet without saying a word, still clutching her wrist, still walking like she wasn’t fully inside her own body.
Something about it twisted deep in my chest.
Didn’t like it.
The second her hand reached for the closet door, I moved. My arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her back before she could touch the handle.
Her body went stiff for half a second, but she didn’t fight me.
“Relax,” I muttered near her ear, my voice coming out rougher than I meant it to. I didn’t do comfort. Didn’t do soft conversations or reassuring speeches.
But the way she’d been moving all night—like she might shatter if someone breathed too hard around her—yeah, didn’t like that either.
She went still in my arms. Completely still.
Her back rested against my chest, and I realized just how small she was. The top of her head barely reached my shoulder.
Tiny thing.
Which made the memory of earlier hit harder. Because that tiny thing had dropped a grown man with one punch.
That almost made me smile.
Almost.
Minutes passed before she finally spoke.
“I punched him.”
Her voice was quiet, flat—like she was announcing the weather.
I didn’t interrupt.
“I’ve never punched anyone before,” she continued.
A small pause.
“Turns out I’m not very good at it.”
