I parked a few blocks away.
Stopping too close would draw attention.
Ha-rin didn't comment when we stepped out. She pulled her cap a little lower and adjusted her mask before walking beside me. Not behind. Not ahead.
Beside.
The street was busier than the last time.
Not crowded—just active. People passing in small groups. Phones out. Conversations overlapping. Enough movement to make awareness unavoidable.
She walked steadily, but I noticed the difference.
Her pace was measured. When she stopped at the crosswalk, she shifted her weight more carefully than before. When the light changed, she didn't rush.
I slowed without thinking.
"…You don't have to," she said quietly.
"I adjusted," I replied.
"…I know."
That answer surprised me.
We crossed.
A couple walked past us, laughing loudly. One of them glanced at Ha-rin, then did a double take before looking away.
Nothing happened.
Still, Ha-rin's shoulders tightened.
She pulled her jacket closed once.
Then again.
"…Is it cold," I asked.
She shook her head. "…No."
The answer came too fast.
We passed a café with wide windows. The reflection caught us as we walked by. She glanced at it briefly.
Not at her face.
Lower.
Her fingers brushed the front of her jacket, then dropped like she'd just realized the movement.
She didn't say anything.
Neither did I.
Near the entrance to the building we were heading toward, a group of people stood talking. One of them laughed loudly and said a name that sounded uncomfortably familiar.
Ha-rin froze for half a second.
I stepped slightly in front of her—not blocking, just narrowing the space.
"…It's not me," she murmured.
"I know," I replied.
"…Still."
We waited until the group moved on before continuing.
Inside, the air was quieter. Cooler. Safer.
She let out a breath she'd clearly been holding.
"…That was close," she said.
"Yes."
"…I hate that I think like this now."
"That is adaptive," I replied. "Not weakness."
She glanced at me.
"…You always make it sound reasonable."
"It usually is."
She didn't respond, but her steps relaxed slightly as we walked further in.
On the way back out, someone passed us and slowed, eyes lingering just a fraction too long.
Ha-rin noticed.
I noticed her noticing.
She lifted her chin, posture shifting instinctively. The public version of her sliding into place with practiced ease.
The person looked away.
Nothing happened.
Outside again, she exhaled slowly.
"…I keep thinking everyone's looking," she admitted.
"They are not," I replied. "But some will."
She nodded.
"…That's honest."
"Yes."
We walked back toward the car. This time, she stayed closer. Close enough that our sleeves brushed when we stopped.
She didn't move away.
Neither did I.
"…You're really calm," she said.
"I am prepared," I replied.
She smiled faintly.
"…That doesn't make me feel better."
"It should."
She laughed quietly, shaking her head.
"…You're impossible."
"Yes."
When we reached the car, she paused before getting in.
"…Thanks," she said.
"For what."
"For being there."
"Yes."
She got in.
As I closed the door, I understood something clearly.
The risk wasn't gone.
But she trusted me to stand between her and it.
And that meant the next time would matter even more.