She looked up, her dark brown eyes exhausted. We should keep going, she said, her voice carrying the particular stubbornness of someone who knew she was flagging but didn’t want to admit it. We only got Lyon done. There are three more sites we could hit today.
We can take thirty minutes. I moved behind her before she could argue, settling my hands on her shoulders.
The knots I found there were brutal. Her body was cataloging every fear and filing it between her shoulder blades for later processing.
Except later never came. She just kept adding more weight.
Echo shifted to concerned yellow on the desk, reflecting what I was feeling before I’d named it.
He’s right. The next site isn’t going anywhere in the next hour, Keane said, looking up from his charts. And we’re no good to anyone if we portal in half-depleted.
I pressed my thumbs into the worst knot, and Marigold exhaled sharply—surprised, relieved, and vulnerable.
My hands stilled for just a moment.
Was I doing this because I genuinely wanted to help her? Or because touch was my language, and I was falling back on what I knew how to perform?
The question should have been simple, but it wasn’t.
Fine, Marigold said, her voice carrying that particular blend of frustration and surrender I’d learned to recognize. Thirty minutes. Then we get back to work.
Thirty minutes, I agreed.
My thumbs found the knot again, working it with more pressure. Real pressure, not the calculated touch I’d used on targets before. This was for her relief, not my advantage.
The distinction mattered.
Keane set aside his charts, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Wisp materialized near the window, settling in to keep watch while giving us privacy. Scout abandoned Marigold’s shoulder to join Echo on the desk, the familiars curling up together companionably.
Even they understood we needed this.
Lie down, I said, gesturing to the open space beside me. Flat. You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep hunching like that.
Bossy, she muttered, but she shifted papers aside and stretched out on her stomach.
The rug was thick beneath her, and the afternoon light caught in her dark blonde hair, turning it almost bronze at the edges. Beautiful. She was always beautiful, but like this—unguarded, trusting me to touch her without agenda—she was devastating.
I knelt beside her and went back to work on her shoulders, this time with leverage. Real leverage, not the careful pressure I’d use if I was trying to seduce.
The line between helping and wanting was getting dangerously blurred, though. My thumbs dug into a new knot, and she groaned without meaning to.
Gods, that hurts.
You’ve been carrying this whole thing in your back, I murmured. Every plan. Every contingency. Every maybe.
Someone has to, she mumbled into the rug.
No, Keane said quietly. I glanced up to find him watching us—not suspicious, just… observing. Reading the dynamic.
He moved to sit beside her head, his fingers sliding into her hair with practiced ease. We all hold it. You don’t have to do it alone.
It was almost too much—my hands on her spine, Keane’s fingers in her hair. The three of us connected in this quiet, careful way.
My hands slid lower, finding tension in her mid-back, her lower back. Each knot I worked through felt like permission granted and accepted. Trust given and honored.
I wasn’t performing this. I was just… doing it.
The realization made my chest tighter.
