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I’m not indifferent. I’m panicking.

But I push through that, forcing the door open even as it screams at me. Once it’s open I fall to my knees, ignoring the harsh bite of broken glass.

“Can you unbuckle?”

“I—yeah.” She groans.

“I’ll catch you.”

She doesn’t pause, trusting me implicitly. And a moment later, she falls into my arms. It’s difficult with the small space, but I am able to maneuver us out of the door together, and once out of the wreckage, I don’t hesitate to carry her to my car.

I tuck her in the back seat before getting in and driving us towards town.

Except I don’t know where to take her. Where I’m going.

“Cinnamon, you said take you to your aunt?” My eyes flash to her in the backseat.

But she’s out—slumped over the backseat, breaths rattling out, a soft snore escaping her lips.

My concern rockets.

Of course she doesn’t want a trail to a hospital. Is “aunt” a codeword for a handler or someone that helps her?

An idea sparks.

I’ll get our doctor to look her over. Make sure she doesn’t have a concussion.

Was this Kale’s fault? Was that his car?

Mind made up, and without any care or thought of the consequences, I drive her to my home.

***

“Other than her cut lip and a small abrasion on her forehead, there is no evidence of any other injuries. It’s a miracle,” the doctor explains, packing up their case. “The X-rays are all good, and I don’t see anything else.”

It had cost an arm and a leg getting the equipment needed to check Cinnamon over as fast as I had, but I didn’t care. And I would be paying even more for this Doctor’s visit.

“She’s okay?” I ask.

“Yes,” the doctor confirms. “She needs rest and fluids. I would suggest, once she is awake, that I return for a thorough examination. But it isn’t pressing.”

And then the doctor is gone, and I focus my entire attention on Cinnamon.

She’s in my bed.

I don’t move for thirty minutes, simply watching her sleep, looking for any signs that she is not okay. That the doctor is wrong.

Once I am satisfied that Cinnamon is simply sleeping, I take a single step forward.

Her eyes flash open.

“You’re safe,” I tell her, putting my hands up. “You’re at my house. You’re still in the clothes from the accident.”

She blinks slowly, looking around. “Uncomfy,” she mutters, rolling over. She half-falls off the bed, and I have to jump forward to catch her.

“Careful,” I hiss out.

This woman is actively taking years off my life.