My mouth becomes a tight line.
Behind me, her grip shifts slightly against my stomach, still there and still quiet.
I ease off the throttle a little. Not because the roads require it, but because she does.
When we stop at a red light downtown, I glance down briefly at the hand wrapped around my waist. Her fingers are trembling, tiny movements that are barely noticeable. But they’re enough.
I cover her hand with mine for just a second. A small squeeze. She squeezes back once, weakly, then lets go again.
The rest of the ride passes beneath the blur of streetlights and cold night air. When we finally pull up in front of her apartment building, she doesn’t move right away, neither of us does. The bike idles beneath us, low and steady. Then slowly, she climbs off and hands me the helmet.
Her eyes look wrecked, red-rimmed, and empty in that post-shock kind of way.
“Liv.”
She looks at me, just barely, like she’s still halfway back at the crash scene.
“You okay?” The question feels stupid the second it leaves my mouth. Of course she isn’t okay.
Her throat moves once before she answers. “No.”
I step closer automatically, not touching her yet but close enough that I can immediately as soon as she gives me the sign to. “You did everything you could,” I tell her.
The look she gives me nearly cracks something behind my ribs. Because she knows that, logically and professionally. And it still doesn’t matter.
“We’re supposed to save people,” she whispers.
I exhale slowly. God. The guilt first responders carry is brutal because it doesn’t care about reality. Doesn’t care if the injuries were survivable. Doesn’t care if the victim died instantly. Some part of her will always wonder if she could’ve done more.
“There was nothing anyone could’ve done,” I articulate.
Her eyes close briefly, like hearing it hurts.
“Alice couldn’t stop crying,” she says quietly. “I’ve never seen her like that before.”
The words tell me more than anything else tonight that Liv’s hurting, but she’s still focused on everyone else. Still carrying people even now.
“She’ll get through it,” I say.
Liv nods faintly but she doesn’t seem convinced.
Neither am I.
A cold wind cuts through the street between buildings. She shivers slightly.
“Go upstairs,” I tell her softly. “Get some sleep if you can.”
A humorless little laugh escapes her. “You say that like that’s going to happen.”
Fair.
I brush my thumb lightly beneath one of her eyes before I can overthink it. Her breath catches slightly, but she doesn’t pull away.
“You don’t have to carry all of it tonight,” I murmur.
Something in her expression wavers dangerously for a second, like she might break open right here on the sidewalk. But then she pulls herself back together, because of course she does.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says softly. Not if.
