Lila’s sensitive in the way sharp people often are, bright enough to see patterns others miss and vulnerable enough to feel the weight of them. That combination makes people interesting, and it also makes them easy targets when the wrong kind of attention comes knocking.
I don’t know what happened yet, but I do know I’m not imagining any of this.
The edge of my attention stays strained on the door, the space she occupied, and the certainty that whatever rattled her hasn’t finished making noise, even as I turn back to my desk and force my focus onto the work in front of me.
The next day is more of the same. She’s back at the office, but she’s distant. Whatever is eating at her hasn’t been resolved.
By the time I leave the building, the day has settled into my shoulders in the familiar way, not heavy exactly, just present, like a hand that hasn’t decided whether it’s friendly or not. I take the side exit instead of the main doors, mostly out of habit and partly because I want air that hasn’t been filtered through a lobby full of other people’s urgency.
The street is loud but ordinary, traffic inching along, horns flaring and dying, the city doing what it always does when it thinks nothing important is happening. I’m halfway down the curb toward my car when something shifts in the soundscape, a pitch change sharp enough that my attention snaps up before my mind has time to label it.
An engine revs hard, too hard for the distance it’s covering, and the car comes into view from the corner of the block moving fast enough to make the rest of the street look stalled. It’s cutting through traffic with intent, not swerving, not correcting, just bearing down like the driver has picked a line and decided to keep it.
I register the speed first, then the angle, then the fact that I’m directly in its path.
I step back on instinct, but the curb catches my heel and throws my balance off by just enough to matter. For a brief, unhelpfulmoment, my brain does the math and lands on the wrong answer. This is going to hurt.
I don’t get the chance to finish the thought.
Someone hits me hard in the chest and shoulder, driving me sideways with enough force to knock the air clean out of my lungs. I stagger, stumble, and go down awkwardly against the hood of a parked car as the vehicle that should have hit me roars past close enough that I feel the heat of it on my leg.
The world tilts, then steadies.
Hands are on me immediately, gripping my coat, my arm, my shoulder, checking me with frantic efficiency. I hear my name, sharp and broken, like it’s being dragged out of someone.
“Ethan. Ethan. Oh my god.”
I look up and find Lila kneeling in front of me, her face gone pale in a way I’ve never seen before, her eyes wide and glassy, her breathing fast and uneven. One hand is still fisted in my coat like she’s afraid letting go might undo whatever miracle just happened, and the other is already moving, checking my arms, my chest, my legs, touching me everywhere at once.
“Hey,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “I’m here.”
She sucks in a breath that turns into something between a sob and a laugh, then presses her forehead into my chest without asking, her whole body shaking as the adrenaline crashes through her. I wrap an arm around her automatically, not thinking about who might be watching or what this looks like, only that she’s holding on like she needs the contact to stay upright.
“That car,” she says, pulling back just enough to look at me, her hands still splayed across my chest like she’s checking for proof. “It came out of nowhere. You didn’t see it. You were right there.”
“I see it now,” I say, dry on purpose, trying to anchor her. “You tackled me.”
“I didn’t tackle you,” she snaps, then immediately presses her lips together like she’s afraid of what might come out next. “I pulled you back.”
“You knocked me sideways,” I correct gently. “That’s more than pulling.”
Her mouth trembles and she laughs again, breathless and wrecked. “I don’t care what you call it. You were going to get hit.”
The sound of sirens starts somewhere down the block, and people are staring now, murmuring, phones out, the moment already turning into a story that isn’t ours. I guide her to her feet and keep my arm around her, not because I need the support but because she does. She leans into me without hesitation, her fingers curling into my sleeve like she’s still bracing for impact.
“You’re shaking,” I say quietly.
“So are you,” she shoots back, and she’s not wrong. The aftershock is working its way through me now, delayed but insistent.
We move toward the sidewalk and away from the street. Once we’re clear, she turns to face me fully, her hands still on my arms, her eyes searching my face like she’s checking for cracks she might have missed.
“Are you hurt?” she asks. “Anything at all.”
“No,” I say. “You got to me in time.”
Her throat works, and she looks down for half a second before meeting my eyes again. “I saw it,” she says, quieter now. “I saw the car, and I didn’t think. I just moved.”
I study her, really look, and the picture sharpens in a way that hits harder than the near miss. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t weigh options or consider consequences. She acted, purely and instinctively, and the fear on her face isn’t abstract. It’s personal.
