Then quieter, “…yeah.”
That should’ve been the end of it.
Instead she says, “You do this often?”
“Nearly freeze to death in storms?”
“That too.”
I huff out a breath. “Occupational hazard.”
The corner of her mouth twitches faintly.
First almost-smile I’ve seen from her tonight.
Then she asks softly, “Why do you keep doing it?”
Not a question people usually ask me.
Most people don’t care enough to.
I stare out at the storm instead of answering right away.
Because the truth is messy.
Because I don’t actually know how to be anything else.
“I’m good at it,” I finally say.
Not the whole answer.
She notices.
I can tell by the silence that follows.
“You could leave,” she murmurs.
“So could you.”
That lands between us.
Olivia shifts slightly, her temple brushing near my shoulder when the wind rattles the rocks again.
“People need me,” she says quietly.
The words come instantly.
Like breathing.
Like fact.
I look down at her.
At the exhaustion she keeps trying to bury beneath control.
“At some point,” I say, “people need to stop taking pieces out of you too.”
She goes still.
