I straighten slowly, breathing through it. “Don’t apologize.”
“I hurt you!”
“You did what you’re supposed to do.”
She winces. “I feel like a monster.”
I step close again, voice low. “You’re not a monster. You’re learning.”
Her gaze holds mine, something soft flickering there. “You’re… really doing this.”
“Yes.”
“Why?” she whispers. “You barely know me.”
Because I can’t shake the image of you running alone on that ridge, I think. Because you walked into our world and lit it up, and now I can’t stop seeing you in it. Instead I say, “Because you’re staying here, and I’m responsible for you.”
She huffs out a laugh. “That’s such a guy answer.”
“It’s the truth.”
She steps closer, tilting her chin up. “Not the whole truth.”
My pulse ticks hard. I can feel the space between us narrowing—not physically, but emotionally. Like every joke and every lesson is tying a rope between us, knot by knot. I force myself back into instructor mode. “One more. If someone tries to shove you into a vehicle?—”
Her humor fades. She nods, serious.
Good.
Because that’s exactly the scenario I don’t want to imagine again.
I demonstrate how to plant her feet, twist away, and make noise. “You scream. You fight. You run toward light and people.”
She nods. “And if there aren’t people?”
“Then you make yourself harder to move than you look.”
She squints. “I’m not that small.”
“You’re not that heavy either.”
She gasps, offended. “Excuse you, I am a strong independent woman with a very respectable?—”
I cut her off. “—center of gravity. Yes. I know.”
She pauses. “Did you just compliment my center of gravity?”
I glare again.
She beams. “You’re getting better at flirting.”
“I’m not flirting.”
“You literally just praised my hips.”
“I did not?—”
She laughs, stepping back, hands up. “Okay, okay. I’ll stop.” But the smile she gives me right then is softer. Less teasing. “Thank you,” she says quietly. “For making me feel like I can do something.”
