Leo does not freeze.
He does not think.
He does not plan.
He moves.
One second, he is beside me. Next, his hand snags the strap of my canvas bag, and his other arm wraps around my waist and yanks.
Hard.
I stumble backward off the curb and into him, flush against his chest.
The sedan whooshes past so close I feel its wind, like the street itself exhales. The driver shouts something obscene out the window, angry and unintelligible, and then it is gone. Over in a second.
And I am pressed against Leo Ashford, my back to his chest, my whole body shaking.
A fine, terrified tremor runs through me like static. I cannot stop it. I cannot hide it. My legs feel boneless.
He is holding me too tight. Protective. Possessive. Like his arm is a seatbelt, and I am the thing he refuses to let the world crash into.
His hand is still tangled in my bag strap. His other hand is splayed across my waist, and I hate that I notice exactly where his fingers are. I hate that my brain is capable of registering the size of his hand while my heartbeat is trying to escape my throat.
“Are you…” He breathes, his voice a rasp.
His face is buried in my hair.
And I smell him. Sweat and flour and something warm and human. I hate that even in the middle of almost getting flattened by a reckless idiot in a sedan, my senses are still traitors.
“Are you ok?” he asks. “You… you just… You walked…”
“I wasn’t looking,” I whisper.
My hands come up and clutch his forearm, the one locked around my waist, in a death grip, like if I let go I will float away or collapse or start sobbing in public like a lunatic.
“I… I didn’t see him.”
“It’s ok,” he murmurs, his voice thick. “He’s gone. You’re ok. I’ve got you.”
He should let go. I know he should. I know it with the cold clarity of someone very familiar with boundaries and consequences, with how one wrong move can make your whole life implode.
This is exactly the kind of line-crossing, boss-intern, HR nightmare scenario he just apologized for.
But he does not move. And I do not move.
I just lean back.
It is small. Almost imperceptible. A shift of my spine. A surrender of my weight. But I lean into him, my head resting, just for a brief, shattering moment, against his collarbone.
And I let out a long, shaky breath.
The DON’T WALK hand is still glowing red.
The street is quiet again.
“Leo,” I whisper.
My voice sounds too small for what I am feeling.
