"Maisie," he said.
I tried to answer. Nothing came out.
My hands were shaking. Then my arms. Then all of me. I was sitting on the floor with broken glass around me and blood on my palms, and my body had decided we were back on Earth. Back in the apartment. Back with hands on me and no way out.
It wasn't Kazan.
I knew that.
My body didn't care.
Kazan took one step toward me, and I flinched.
He stopped immediately. That almost made me cry harder than if he'd kept coming. Slowly, he crouched. He was still huge. Crouching didn't fix that. But he made himself smaller anyway, or tried to. He held out one hand, palm up.
He didn't tell me to calm down.
He didn't tell me that I was safe.
He didn't touch me without permission.
He just waited.
My breath came in short, ugly little gasps. I stared at his hands. Big. Scarred. Strong enough to throw a man into a cooler like he weighed nothing.
Gentle enough to wait for me.
My throat burned. I put my shaking hand in his.
His fingers curled around mine with impossible care. He didn't pull. Not at first. He just held on, warm and steady, until I moved toward him.
Then he drew me close, an inch at a time. I could have stopped him. I knew that. He gave me every chance.
I didn't stop him.
I went into his arms.
For one awful second, I went rigid. I waited for the trap. For the squeeze. For the moment gentleness turned into ownership.
It didn't come.
Kazan held me like I might break, but not like I was weak. His arms rested around me, loose enough that I could leave if I wanted. His chest was warm beneath my cheek, and I could feel him forcing his breathing to slow.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Like he was teaching my lungs what to do.
I followed him.
It took a while. I didn't know how long. Long enough that the man in the cooler yelled something muffled and furious.
Kazan ignored him. So did I.
