Her bag hangs twisted across her body. I set her down only enough for her boots to touch the bottom step, keeping one arm around her waist because she sways immediately. She fumbles at the strap with shaking fingers.
“I have it,” I say.
“I can do it.”
“Your hands are shaking.”
“So are yours.”
I stop.
She looks down pointedly at my hand braced beside her on the wall. My fingers are not steady. Not from exertion. Not from cold. From the effort of touching her gently when every instinct in me still wants to hunt the men who hurt her until Halo runs clean with their fear.
I remove the bag from her shoulder with careful movements. She does not flinch. That nearly destroys me.
The key is inside a small pocket with a cracked compad, two receipts, pepper spray, and a folded picture of an older couple standing in front of the bakery. Her family, perhaps. People who trusted the world enough to smile at a camera.
I unlock the door and push it open.
Warmth rolls out, faint but real. The bakery at night smells of cooling ovens, sugar, flour, lemon glaze, and old coffee. It is not my world. It is too bright even in darkness, too soft around the edges, too full of evidence that people once believed in permanence.
Evie inhales shakily. “Home sweet financially unstable home.”
“You make jokes when hurt.”
“I make jokes when alive.”
I do not like how much that answer relieves me.
I guide her inside and lock the door behind us. The kitchen is dim except for a small work light above the prep counter. Metal bowls gleam in rows. Pans are stacked neatly. A towel hangs from the oven handle, embroidered with tiny pink pastries. Oven three sits silent and hulking, apparently finished threatening the building for the night.
“Chair,” I say.
“Upstairs.”
“No.”
“My first-aid kit is upstairs.”
“I can carry you.”
“You keep saying things like they are final.”
“They are.”
She tilts her head back to look up at me, one eye swelling, mouth bruised, expression still somehow fierce. “Do you ever ask?”
“No.”
“Explains a lot.”
I stare at her.
She sighs. “Fine. Carry me upstairs, but if you drop me, I’m haunting you.”
“I will not drop you.”
“I know. I was lightening the mood.”
