Page 22 of Romancing in Rot

No.

Not the reason we’re here, asshole.

She clears her throat. The sound comes out rougher than she probably meant it to, and a faint flush creeps up her neck. “What are we doing here?”

Right. That.

I pull the crowbar off my back and press it into her hands. Her fingers close around it on instinct.

Good.

I gesture around the store. The display cases sit untouched beneath a thick coat of dust, their glass cloudy but whole. Velvet stands line the shelves inside, necklaces and rings still arranged like someone expected customers to walk in any second. A few bracelets gleam under the weak light slipping through the front window, delicate and useless in a world that has no room for pretty things anymore. A cracked mirror hangs behind the counter, catching broken pieces of both of us.

Her frown deepens. “What?”

I pull out the notebook, write fast, rip the page free, and hand it to her. Take every shitty thing they ever said about you and break it.

Her eyes move across the words once. Twice. Her throat works.

Is she going to hand it back and walk out? Did I push too hard, ask for too much, put my hands too close to a wound that isn’t mine to touch? It takes everything in me not to reach for the page. Not to take it back. Not to give her an exit before she asks for one.

Then a slow smile pulls at her mouth.

That smile hits harder than it should.

She hands the notebook back and adjusts her grip on the crowbar. “Won’t it draw in the infected?”

I shrug and lift my bow. I’ve got you.

She nods and steps forward.

The door eases shut behind her. She closes her eyes.

The only sound in the store is Clair’s breathing.

Slow in.

Slow out.

Dust hangs in the cracked jewelry-store light while she grips the crowbar like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.

Then her eyes snap open.

She swings.

Glass explodes. Shards skitter across the tile. She swings again, harder, and another case caves in. Gold rings scatter from velvet. Wood splinters. Metal screams.

I keep my arrow ready, eyes cutting from the door to the windows and back to her.

Always back to her.

Each hit tears something loose. Russ. Every voice that taught her to shrink. Every old wound she still carries like it belongs to her. She drives the crowbar down again and laughs, raw and broken around the edges.

There she is.

The fire I remember from high school. Buried. Bruised. Never gone.

She swings until her hair falls loose, until her arms shake, until the last hit lands weak and furious all at once. The crowbar slips from her hands and clangs against the tile.