June was still processing everything he'd said, and it showed, not in her usual tight-lipped smiles or dismissive chuckles, but in the way her grip on her crutch had subtly shifted, in the way her shoulders had lifted ever so slightly, her posture no longer folding in on itself.
Ever since they had met, Kafka had drilled the same message into her every time they met: never talk down about yourself, hold yourself higher, stop sabotaging your own beauty with words that make you smaller.
She'd taken those words in before, even repeated them back to herself in private, but deep down the old habit clung like a vine.
It was ingrained. So ingrained, in fact, that just now it had slipped out again without her even thinking about it.
But now...now something had shifted.
It wasn't just the words, it was the way he'd said them, bold and unflinching, right in front of her staff.
