She stares at me.
I grin. “No, not really. Don’t ask him unless you got fifteen minutes and a high tolerance for nonsense.”
Her eyes drift to the door.
The staring is getting to her.
I see it in the shoulders. The chin. The way her hand moves toward her own wrist, then stops because the bruise is covered.
I step closer, but not too close.
“Hand at your back?” I ask.
Her eyes lift to mine.
That question hits her harder in public than it did in my hallway.
“People are watching,” she whispers.
“I know.”
“If I say no?”
“Then no.”
Her throat works.
The porch has gone quieter. Someone lights a cigarette. A woman whispers. A man near the door says, “That her?” and gets elbowed hard by someone with more survival instinct.
Amelia hears it.
Her face changes.
Not fear now.
Pride.
“Hand at my back,” she says.
So I put my hand there.
Low enough to look like I mean it.
High enough not to take more than she gave.
Her body tenses for half a breath. Then she stays.
Every man on that porch sees it.
Good.
Every woman sees that I asked first.
Better.
Amelia notices that too. I can tell by the way her eyes flick up at me, startled and soft and annoyed that she is either.
I lean closer. “Ready?”