We don’t get far.
She tries; I’ll give her that. Puts weight on her ankle, grits her teeth, and forces out three determined steps before faltering.
“Tessa,” I warn, my voice dropping low.
“I’m good,” she replies, too bright. “Just walk ahead. I’ll limp my way back to the room.”
“Stop.”
She doesn’t.
So, I move. One step forward. Both hands out. She realizes too late what’s coming.
“Don’t you—Rowan. Rowan!”
Too late.
I scoop her up, put my arms under her thighs and back. She’s light, but she fights against me.
“Put me down.”
“No.”
“This is not romantic.”
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
“Seriously. You can’t just carry people around.”
I adjust her higher when she squirms, her palm pressing into my shoulder to shove me away. “Would you prefer to limp until you actually fracture it? I hear negligence builds trust.”
“I’d rather crawl.”
“You’d break a nail.”
“I’d survive.”
“You’d complain.”
She folds her arms, still half-pinned against me, and glares. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright, her breath uneven. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Only a little.”
“Ugh. Peak patriarchal nonsense.”
“And yet, here we are.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re smug.”
“Correct.”
“You think this makes you noble?”
“I think it makes us on time for the next clue.”
She exhales hard, the sound half laugh, half surrender. “You know, this is how Victorian women died. Carried into the forest by emotionally unavailable men with God complexes.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “If you faint, I’m leaving you under a tree.”
