I stepped fully inside, glancing down at her, unsure if I should offer her a hand or back away before my chest cracked open.
“You fell,” I said, because apparently my brain had turned to mush.
Her lips twitched. “Yeah, I noticed.”
“You hit anything?”
“My pride.”
I glanced at Riley, who just looked amused now.
“She’s fine,” she said. “More embarrassed than hurt, I suspect.”
I looked back at Lydia, who was still sitting on the floor and staring up at me likeIwas the weird one.
Maybe I was.
Because the sight of her on the ground—frustrated, flushed, real—had done something to me. Tugged at something I’d thought was buried under years of stubborn independence and self-preservation.
Without thinking, I offered her a hand.
She hesitated for a second, then took it.
Her palm was warm and a little sticky with tape residue, and her fingers curled around mine like she didn’t expect me to be gentle, but I was.
I pulled her to her feet, slow and steady, and tried very hard not to think about how close we were standing.
“Thanks,” she said, not letting go right away.
I didn’t either.
Then we both realized it at the same time and dropped hands like we’d touched a live wire.
Riley cleared her throat loudly and grabbed another chair.
“I’m gonna, um, go tape these up on the other wall. You two enjoy your… whatever this is.”
Lydia shot her a glare as she walked away. “Traitor.”
I tried to back up, reset, remember why I’d come in here in the first place.
Right. She fell.
And now she was standing in front of me with paint on her calf, hair sticking to her cheek, and a look in her eyes that knocked the wind right out of me.
“You don’t have to panic every time I enter a building you’re in,” she said after a beat.
“I didn’t panic.”
“You dropped a crate of beer in the street.”
“That was unrelated.”
Her mouth quirked. “Right.”
I rubbed the back of my neck, scowling. “You should pay attention to where you’re walking.”
“I did. I just didn’t expect Riley to weaponize her furniture.”