Page 34 of Brotan

Our eyes lock, the challenge clear. I could break her hold without effort, walk away, disappear into the darkness. She knows it. I know it. And we both know I won't.

"Fine," I concede, the surrender reluctant but inevitable.

Relief flickers across her face, quickly masked by professional focus. "Inside," she says, already turning toward the house, her hand sliding from my wrist to grip my forearm, guiding me as if I might bolt. "Those burns need treatment now."

I follow her through the door, telling myself it's just to make sure she's safe after the fire. Nothing to do with how her touch burns hotter than the flames against my skin, or how her concern carves through defenses I've spent a lifetime building.

I follow her into a small, tidy living room and compact kitchen. She points to a chair before disappearing down a hallway, returning with a first aid kit.

"Why were you really here?" she asks as she runs cold water in the sink.

"I told you. Driving by."

She cuts a look that says she's done with my bullshit. "The clubhouse is in the opposite direction. Put your hands under the water."

I comply, hissing as cold hits the burns. She moves beside me, close enough that I can smell the smoke in her hair, the vanilla on her skin.

"You were checking on me after our fight," she says quietly. "Weren't you?"

"Wasn't a fight," I mutter, looking away.

"Wasn't it?" She turns off the water, gently patting my hands dry before leading me back to the table. "Sit."

She lays out burn cream and bandages with practiced efficiency. Her movements are steady, professional, but there's a tension in her shoulders that betrays how rattled she is.

She takes one of my hands in hers and turns it over. "These aren't just burns. You've been fighting again."

"Only with myself," I admit, the honesty scraping my throat raw.

She returns to treating the damage, her touch clinical yet somehow intimate.

"The fire was intentional," I say as she applies cream to my palm. "Gasoline. Positioned for maximum damage."

She nods, not looking up. "I know."

"This is the second fire since you arrived."

"I'm aware."

"Right next to your house, Maya. Not six hours after you visited Victor. Are you still going to tell me you don't need protection?" Frustration bubbles to the surface.

Her hands still, eyes lifting to meet mine. "You think I don't understand the danger? You think I don't know what's happening?"

"Then why fight me on this?"

"Because this isn't about protection." She resumes bandaging, her touch gentle despite the tension in her voice. "This is about agency. About respect. About you treating me like I'm capable of making my own decisions."

"Even if those decisions put you at risk?"

"Yes." The simplicity of her answer knocks the air from my lungs. "Even then."

I stare at her, trying to reconcile this woman with anyone I've ever known. "You think I don't care?" The words escape before I can stop them. "You think I'd let this place burn if I didn't—"

I cut myself off. Too much. Too honest.

Her eyes meet mine. "I know you care."

The silence that follows sits heavy between us. She's still holding my bandaged hand, her fingers cool against my overheated skin. We're too close, the kitchen too small, the night too full of adrenaline and things we've been avoiding since that first day in the diner.

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