Bastián’s hand stayed at my waist for one sharp second longer than it needed to.
That was the problem, not the stumble itself, not the rough road, not even the fact that half the transport had shifted with the bump. It was the way his grip locked around me with a reflex that looked too natural to be safe.
I pushed myself upright at once.
“I am fine,” I said, though my voice came out thinner than I wanted.
His hand stayed there for a beat longer, steadying me while the vehicle rocked under us. Then he let go, slow enough to feel deliberate. My thigh was still burning under the fabric, hot and sharp in a way that made my jaw tighten.
He can’t know. He can’t know.
The thought repeated in my head like a prayer I didn’t believe in.
I sat back down hard enough to make the seat creak, and
