Page 3 of Keller

"Quinny, seriously, are you?—"

"I'm fine." My voice cracks. I clear my throat and try again. "I just need a second."

Leah's hand rubs my back, grounding and gentle, but all I can think about is how his hand felt nothing like hers. How his presence didn't comfort, it commanded. A shiver runs through me, and I shake it off.

"Sit down."

Leah's hand presses on my shoulder, guiding me toward a bench outside a closed gallery. The smell of damp brick and old plaster clings to the air, and the streetlight overhead flickers.

"I don't need to sit."

"You almost got trampled by a horse. You're sitting."

I sink onto the bench because arguing takes energy I don't have. The wood is damp under my thighs, cold through my jeans. Leah crouches in front of me, her face pale in the streetlight, and reaches for my arm.

"Let me see."

"It's fine."

"Quinn."

I roll up my sleeve. The bruise is already forming. There are five distinct marks where his fingers pressed, dark against my skin. Leah touches the edge of it, featherlight, and winces.

"That's going to hurt tomorrow."

It hurts now. A deep ache that pulses in time with my heartbeat, but I don't say that. Instead, I pull my sleeve back down and lean forward, elbows on my knees.

"How did that even happen? One second we are walking across the street, and the next you're being whisked up by a blonde-haired Clark Kent."

"Honestly, I don't know. I think one of those drunk guys hit me, and I lost my balance."

Leah sits beside me, hip bumping mine. "I guess you need to be ready for anything in this city."

My stomach twists. The nausea hits suddenly, leftover adrenaline with nowhere to go. I swallow hard and focus onthe cobblestones between my feet. Count the cracks. Breathe through my nose.

"You're right, that guy did look like Clark Kent. Trimmer, but he was delicious. I guess that’s a silver lining."

"Did you get his number?"

My hand moves to my arm automatically, fingers brushing the bruise through the fabric.

I laugh nervously, as if I were thinking about asking a guy for his number in that split second. “I was a little distracted by the horse."

Leah leans back against the bench, arms crossed, and the look she gives me is pure calculation. "Good point. That's too bad."

"Let's go. I'm good, I promise."

"You're shaking."

I look down. My hands are trembling in my lap, fingers curled tight. I flatten them on my thighs and press until the shaking stops.

"It's okay to be freaked out."

No, it's not.Because I shouldn't have frozen. I should have moved. I've trained for worse situations than this, actual threats, not drunk tourists and bad timing. But instead, I locked up like a rookie, and if that man hadn't been there?—

I cut the thought off and shove it down where it can't touch me.

"It was an accident. It's over."