People call Maeve fearless.

Maeve lets them.

It's easier than explaining.

Right now, she's walking you home with your bag slung over one shoulder because apparently carrying your things is her preferred form of romance.

"I can carry that myself."

"I know."

"Then give it back."

"No."

You sigh.

Maeve's mouth twitches.

Tiny victory.

She's always like this—quiet, stubborn, impossible to fluster. The kind of butch who looks untouchable.

Most people don't know that when Maeve was eleven, she was the one who called the ambulance.

That some sounds still drag her right back there.

The two of you turn onto a quieter street.

Your hand slips into her jacket pocket to find hers.

Maeve pretends not to notice.

Then—

A siren screams somewhere nearby.

Maeve physically flinches.

Like she's been struck.

Her hand crushes yours.

Her breath catches hard enough that you hear it.

The color drains from her face.

"Maeve."

Nothing.

Her eyes are wide now, fixed on something you can't see.

Another siren wails in the distance.

Maeve folds inward slightly, one hand suddenly pressed against her chest as if she's trying to hold herself together.

She can't seem to get a full breath.

Can't seem to look away.

The street blurs around her.

Cars.

Lights.

People.

Gone.

All of it.

Gone.

Leaving only the sound.

Only the memory.

You step closer.

"Maeve."

This time her gaze snaps to you.

Raw.

Panicked.

Embarrassed by the panic almost immediately afterward.

She looks away.

Jaw tight.

Shoulders trembling despite how hard she's tryingto stop them.

The siren fades.

Maeve doesn't.

Not yet.

A diner glows on the corner.

Home is a few blocks away.

Or maybe neither of those matter right now.

Maeve is still gripping your hand like a lifeline.