Natalya insisted on helping me into the wheelchair, her hands firm but gentle as she guided me outside. "You're still recovering," she murmured, her voice leaving no room for argument. "Let me take care of you."
I didn't protest. There was something comforting in the way she took charge, the way her fingers lingered on my shoulders as she pushed me toward the car. The others moved around us in silence, their presence a quiet reassurance that we were protected.
Polina opened the car door, her sharp eyes scanning the surroundings before helping Natalya ease me into the backseat.
The moment I was settled, Natalya slid in beside me, her fingers immediately finding mine, her grip tight—almost desperate, like she was afraid I'd disappear if she let go. "Stay close," she whispered, her thumb brushing over my knuckles.
