She takes one step.
Her knees dip, just slightly, like her body forgets it’s supposed to cooperate.
My hand goes to her waist automatically.
Cally’s hand goes to her other side at the same time.
Vesper freezes between us.
I feel Cally’s fingers brush mine.
Electric.It’s more than just awareness.I tighten my grip on Vesper and force my mind back into the lane it’s supposed to stay in.
“You’re sitting,” I tell her.
“I’m not?—”
“You are,” Cally says, voice too sweet to be safe.
Vesper’s eyes narrow.“I swear to God, if either of you tries to carry me?—”
“I’ll do it,” Cally says immediately.
“I’ll drop you,” I add.
Her mouth opens.
Cally laughs like I’m hilarious.Like I’m not one second from putting him through this counter.
Vesper points at us both.“You’re both insane.”
She sits anyway.
The moment she’s down, her face changes again—relief, then anger at the relief.She hates needing the chair.Hates that her muscles aren’t holding the line.
I crouch in front of her, not touching her, keeping my voice neutral.“Breathe.”
“Don’t coach me.”
“I’m not coaching you,” I say.“I’m keeping you upright.”
She exhales hard through her nose like she’s trying not to laugh.“Congratulations, goalie.You saved me from the terrifying threat of gravity.”
Cally leans against the counter, arms folded, eyes glued to her like if he looks away, she’ll vanish.“You’re going back to Portland with us.”
“No,” she says.
“Yes,” Cally says.
“No,” she repeats, sharper.
“Harvey will be here with a team—Philippe doesn’t need you.”
I stand slowly, keeping my tone even.“Your dad’s going to Baker’s Creek again next week.He has follow-ups.He needs rest, food, hydration, and people around him.”
“And he has that,” Vesper snaps.“He has me.”
“You,” I say, voice low, “are about to pass out in your father’s kitchen.”
