Val's pov
I don't know what annoyed me more—his voice in my ear or the fact that he actually helped.
Theo Dodge, with his smug little smirk and his half-whispered answer, like I was too dense to know it myself. Like I needed him. I didn't. I just blanked for a second. One stupid second.
That didn't mean he had to swoop in like he was doing me some noble favor.
I kept replaying it on the walk out of school—his voice, low and too close: "Kennan. The long telegram. Containment."
Contain this, I thought bitterly.
I'd always been decent at school. Not top of the class, not flunking either. A clean, predictable middle. Enough to keep teachers happy and Dad off my back. I didn't need Theo, with his perfect GPA and natural smarts and permanent place on every honors board, looking at me like I was pathetic.
Like I was something to fix.
By the time I realized I was walking toward the rink instead of home, I didn't even care. I had my bag, my blades, and enough pent-up frustration to fuel an Olympic routine. I didn't even bother changing out of my uniform. The tights underneath were good enough, and the skirt let me move.
The rink was quiet. Blessfully empty. Just cold air and the buzz of the overhead lights and the familiar scratch of blades on ice.
I didn't warm up. I didn't stretch. I just stepped out and moved.
Spins. Jumps. Doubles, almost-triples. Anything to take the edge off the morning. Off the heat in my chest. Off him.
I landed a clean double toe loop and exhaled like I'd been holding my breath since third period.
This was mine. The ice. The movement. No one could outshine me here. Not Theo, not anyone.
By the time I left, my hair was a mess, my thighs were burning, and I felt like a human again.
That lasted exactly twelve minutes.
---
I knew something was wrong the second I opened the front door.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
"Emma?" I called, kicking off my sneakers. No answer.
I dropped my bag by the stairs and headed toward the living room, a pit forming in my stomach. "Emma?"
She was on the floor.
Just—lying there. A crumpled little heap in her pajamas, her arm barely clinging to the couch pillow she must've dragged down with her.
"Emma!" I rushed over, dropping to my knees, heart thundering in my ears. Her skin was flushed, damp. Her breath came in fast little huffs.
I touched her forehead. Burning.
Panic clawed its way up my throat.
"Okay, okay. You're okay," I whispered more to myself than her. "You're fine. We're fine."
I scooped her up—she was so light—and grabbed my phone on the way out. Called a cab because Dad sure as hell wouldn't answer. He was probably halfway across the city in a glass tower, barking at assistants and ignoring missed calls from home.
The hospital lights were too white. Too bright.
The nurse at the desk took one look at Emma in my arms and waved me through. She was still breathing. Still whispering little half-conscious things under her breath. I sat beside the hospital bed and held her hand like it was the only thing anchoring me to earth.
I didn't cry. I didn't have time to cry.
But I was scared. God, I was scared.
---
I must've zoned out, because the next thing I knew, the nurse was telling me she'd be okay. Fever from the flu, probably. She needed fluids, rest, and meds.
"Are your parents on the way?" she asked.
I smiled, sharp and bitter. "It's just me."