"Finn."
"Your ankle still has limited function based on your range of motion this morning. Traveling in this terrain calculates to a 34% probability of reinjury."
I want to argue. But he's not wrong, and he's looking at me with something that might be concern if he knew how to express it normally.
"Fine. Five more days. But we keep testing. When we leave, I want enough data that no one can dismiss this."
"Whenweleave?"
"You're coming with me. To Larkspur." I wait for the protest I know is coming. "I'm not going to force you. But I'm asking."
He's quiet for a long moment. Calculating, probably. Weighing variables I can't see.
"Crowds are difficult," he says finally. "Too many inputs. People don't follow predictable patterns. I get—" He stops. Starts again. "Overwhelmed isn't the right word. It's more like... noise. So much noise I can't find the signal. And when I can't find the signal, I make mistakes. Miss things I shouldn't miss. Respond wrong."
"Then I'll help." I close the distance between us, take his hands. "We'll have signals of our own. If you need to leave, we leave. If you need a break, I'll run interference. You don't have to process it alone."
"You would do that? Structure your approach?"
"Around how you work. Yes." I squeeze his hands.
He smiles softly, mirroring my own. "Yes. Okay. I'll come."
seven
Finnegan
LarkspurSettlementisexactlyas bad as I calculated.
Forty-three people in a space designed for far less. Noise from every direction: conversations overlapping, children shouting, metal clanging from the workshop. Movement I can't track. Inputs I can't filter.
Kate's hand on my arm is the only consistent data point.
"I'll handle the conversations. You just need to stand there."
She's narrating. Giving me information I can process. It helps more than she probably knows.
The families collide with Kate in a wave of grief and questions. I step back and position myself near the trading post where I can observe without being observed.
That night, Kate and I stay in a guesthouse room—small, private, away from the communal areas that made my skin feel too tight. She closes the door and the silence is so sudden it almost hurts.
"You did well," she says. "Six hours in a crowd. You handled it."
"I had you. That made it manageable."
"We make a good team." She crosses to me, slides her arms around my neck. "Now I want to show you how much I appreciate you coming here with me."
"Show me how?"
"By letting you do whatever you want to my body." She pulls back enough to meet my eyes. "No rules tonight except red for stop. I trust you. Whatever you've been thinking about, whatever you want to try—this ispermission."
I've been thinking about her body for hours. Even in the chaos of the settlement, part of my brain was running calculations. The curve of her waist. The sounds she makes when I touch certain spots. The way her face changes when she comes.
I strip her clothes off. I've learned the fastest way now, the order of clasps and buttons that minimizes fumbling. Then I strip myself and guide her to the bed.
Tonight I want data. Thorough, comprehensive data.
I start with her throat. Kiss along the tendon where her pulse beats. Down to her breasts—highly responsive, especially the left nipple, which hardens faster than the right.
