Page 240 of Immune

That makes her stare at me.

And for once, I let her. I let her look. Let her have something other than Maine’s face, Hale’s suspicion, Mercer’s guilt, and every single ghost clawing their way from her past.

“Where are you from?” she asks suddenly.

The question is casual enough that I almost answer the same way. Almost. Instead, I ask, “Originally?”

Dakota raises an eyebrow. “I mean, unless you were grown in a lab or something, yeah. Originally.”

“Seoul,” I tell her honestly, giving her another piece. “My family left South Korea when I was young enough that I could adjust.”

Her expression shifts slightly, but not with pity. More like curiosity, maybe. It’s careful and really badly hidden, proven when she asks, “You miss it?”

I peer through the cracked glass, at the long-dead vines that climb the frame, and the ruined compound lights past them. Then I tell her softly, “I miss what I remember. Not really sure that’s the same thing, though.”

Dakota grows quiet for a heavy moment. Not the kind of quiet that means she has nothing to say, but more like the kind that means she’s choosing whether to touch that particular bruise or leave it alone. Then her gaze drops to my hand and she says, “You said that like remembering hurts.”

“It does.”

Her throat moves with a harsh swallow. “Yeah. I get that.”

I know. I know because it’s written in the way she holds herself. In the way she flinches from softness and still decides to reach for it anyway. But the words settle between us with something like honesty, just a little rough around the edges.

She looks away first, but she doesn’t step back.

Instead, she steps closer. One step, and then another.

“I don’t want to be handled carefully,” she says quietly.

“I know.”

“I’m not a crystal glass,” she adds.

“No, you’re not.”

“I won’t shatter just because someone touches me.”

“No, you won’t,” I promise her.

“Then touch me.”

The words are quiet, but not unsure. They’re just raw enough that I force myself to breathe once before answering. “Where?”

Her pupils widen and I see the exact moment the question reaches her. Not if, not why, not are you sure in that fake way people ask when they’ve already decided what answer they want.

Where.

Her choice. Her body. Her rules.

Dakota swallows before answering. “My face.”

I lift my hand slowly. Slow enough that she can move away at any second, bite me, mock me, or even pretend this was all a biological blunder she’ll pretend never even happened later. But she doesn’t do any of those things, and so my fingers touch her cheek.

Her skin is warm under the pale patches, softer than the violence she wears so well. She closes her eyes at once, angry about it. I only know because her mouth tightens like she’s deeply and personally offended by her own nervous system.

I keep my touch light and without an ounce of pity. I don’t worship, I simply provide attention, and she releases a shaky breath before whispering, “Again.”

So I give her my other hand too, cupping her face between my palms. And this time, she leans into it. It’s only a fraction, but it’s enough.