They’re still bright. Still glassy. Still carrying everything she just gave away onstage.
I hold her gaze, steady as I can make it.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods once. Then again. Like she’s convincing herself.
“Yeah,” she whispers. “Just…give me a minute.”
I shift closer, a silent offer.
The glitter at her temples is smudged now. Proof of tears and lights and everything she just accomplished.
I shrug out of my jacket and step closer. Then, I drape it over her shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
She pulls it tighter around herself immediately, fingers curling into the fabric at her chest. The sleeves swallow her hands.
She looks up.
Her eyes catch on my face and stay there, soft and searching. The way she looks when she’s exhausted enough to stop pretending.
“You always do that,” she murmurs.
Her voice is quiet. Not accusing. Almost wonderstruck.
“Do what?” I ask.
“Make me feel…” She trails off for a second before she continues, “…not alone.”
Her shoulders relax another inch. She steps closer without looking at her feet, like she trusts the space between us not to disappear.
Her hands fist in the lapels of my jacket.
My jacket.
Her forehead drops forward until it rests lightly against my sternum.
Just for a second.
Just long enough for me to feel the weight of her there.
Her breath evens out. Her body warms. The shaking fades to a low hum.
I look down at her and think, absurdly, that no one should ever be allowed to frighten her again.
I know that’s not how the world works.
But it doesn’t stop the instinct.
Footsteps echo at the far end of the hallway.
Security appears in the doorway, one of Manny’s guys giving us a respectful amount of distance.
“Route’s clear,” he says. “Car’s ready.”
Neither of us moves.
Lila lifts her head.
