Risk Management
Since she was a kid, Anna always had a problem with heights. Staircases. Ladders. Slopes. Even something trivial like hopping over a ledge. Bumps and bruises and the occasional broken bone. Trembly legs and wide eyes staring down the heights which put stones in her heart. None of this stopped her from getting back up, fate and slender limbs willing - just to try again to get it right. Alarm bells rang in Iduna's head when her petite redheaded daughter declared after high school that she'd very much like to work in construction. Just like dad did. And not as a union delegate, mind you. Or in an air-conditioned office drafting plans. Construction. Red pigtails dangling while she's harnessed from a scaffold. Standing single-footed on an A-frame ladder with both hands on a tape measure and a pencil between her teeth. None of the union-ordained protective gear or safety briefings or risk management documents she submits makes any difference. She still takes her share of tumbles. The wear-and-tear of her past catches up, and after taking a nasty fall down some half-completed timber stairs, the insurance company finally hauls her in to adjust her premiums.
A three-day stay at the trauma ward and a shoulder numb from painkillers later, Anna finds herself in a stuffy office building, a million explanations waiting for the officer and another million "NOs" from him.
"I'm telling you miss, we can't insure someone like you if your accident rate exceeds the statistical risk limit our company is willing to accept," he explains, "should you wish to challenge this, you'd have to speak to the Underwriter."
The dramatic, sombre way he pronounces "Underwriter" might as well be "Undertaker." Anna slouches in a waiting room chair, pondering what kind of demonic corporate entity awaits her once her number is called. She drags her feet past rows of identical cubicles filled with elderly folk quarrelling over pre-existing health conditions. All at once the breath catches in her lungs as she reaches the cubicle; electric blue eyes staring into her soul. Her shoulder injury flares up. This can't be right, can it? Anna vocalises, Cubicle A13? Her eyes fall upon the slim figure seated primly within. Braided blonde hair with nary a strand out of place. Dark-rimmed glasses. Pressed dark suit just hiding the slight curve of her bosom behind a white blouse. Anna suddenly feels extremely underdressed in her cargo pants and polo-shirt and chuffed work boots.
"Yes ma'am, this is cubicle A13," A deadpan voice answers. God, her lips don't even so much as move.
She reads the nameplate on the Underwriter's desk. Elsa Williams. Black lettering on silver. Desk devoid of everything besides a calculator and a ruler. Black mechanical keyboard and mouse. No family pictures. No plants. Nothing. Anna feels like she's intruding on her austere desk once she upends a stack of creased and crumpled insurance documents. Together with years of workmen's compensation claims.
Slim fingers reach across the pile. No ring either. Elsa takes a moment to leaf through her documents.
"It looks like you've quite the talent for getting yourself hurt, Ms Miller," Elsa remarks, "why're you filing these claims on your own?"
Anna swallows as those blue eyes steal the answer right from her lips.
"Because it's-it's my company," Anna answers, "I'm a private contractor."
The pile of documents slides back towards Anna - right as Elsa gets out of her chair and reaches for the top of a larger-than-life filing cabinet. Despite her height and high heels, she still struggles to reach a binder. Anna finds her eyes drifting towards the delicate firmness of her Underwriter's butt in those slim-fitting-
Oh would you stop it, you perv! Anna catches herself. Her eyes flit away, but it's too late. Elsa's sitting across from her, giving her the side-eye right before flipping to a page marked Actuarial Tables for Personal Injury Claims: Construction Industry, Age adjusted. She wastes no time running her ruler down the tabular maze of percentages in two-point font. Followed by a few quick taps on the calculator.
"Unfortunately, we have to increase all your premiums by 300%," Elsa announces.
The news sends Anna slumping back. Now she understands why Elsa's called the Undertaker.
"Y-you can't!" Anna protests, "This w-would-"
"Put you in the red?" Elsa flashes a P/L sheet from her income statements.
A hoarse, gurgling noise sputters from Anna's throat, before she spews it out.
"Yes!"
Elsa's ice-cold stare from earlier melts. She looks over her shoulder as if some beast is watching her. From her angle, Anna can see Elsa's hand perched on a pedestal. She waits, nearly missing the faintest of whispers from the blonde woman's lips.
"I can help you," Elsa whispers, gingerly peeling a form from the drawer, "if you fill this and take it upstairs, there's a chance they'll put you on another plan with a higher tolerance. It's not guaranteed but it's worked so far."
"Thank you!" Anna squeals, only for the ice-cold stare to return, this time with fingers on her lips.
"You can thank me by keeping your voice down, and not mentioning my name."
Immediately, Anna trots down the corridor. Moments before reaching the elevator, she pauses. And turns back. Only to notice a blonde braid fluttering back within cubicle A13.
Elsa hates phone calls with a passion. Perhaps it's her home-schooled upbringing. Or the fact she's never owned a phone until she was 21. The idea of a jarring ringtone cutting into someone's day and straight-up demanding their attention appears rude to her. So, when the second batch of insurance forms arrives with an impossible filing deadline, Elsa hesitates to call Anna. But Anna isn't like her, is she? Free-spirited and reckless, a phone call wouldn't bother Anna the way it bothers her.
No, she'd probably take a call while tethered to a ten-foot scaffold; phone perched between her shoulder and ears while she continues hammering nails or whatever she does. The thought makes Elsa shudder with fear. So does the simple act of pressing DIAL on her phone.
As the ringtone chimes in her ear. The realisation sets in: she's called hundreds of customers over her career. Not one of them has sent that same buzzing feeling beneath her skin. Or froze the words on her lips the moment their cheery voice answered.
"Hello?"
"Good Morning, Ms Miller. I'm calling from the insurance firm-"
"Elsa?"
Elsa jerks upright in her seat. She foolishly spends the next two seconds counting the days since Anna last saw her. A week. No. Two. She remembered your name. Your voice. The thought sends her head into a tailspin. It's enough to make her struggle with her script.
"We've some forms for you to sign for the new plan, but they've to be submitted by today to catch the fiscal year. Would you by any chance be home in an hour's time?"
"Well, under the terms of my claim, I am supposed to remain at home and recover, aren't I? It's not like I'm going to work with a busted shoulder anyway-"
Elsa chuckles, "You actually read the fine print on your claim?"
"I mean, yea - it has your name on it," Anna explains, before a heavy pause falls upon the line, "I don't want to get you in trouble, or anything."
Elsa stares straight at the wall. The slightest hint of warmth seeps beneath her cheeks. It tangles the words in her throat.
"I'd assume you're home then. I'll drop by in an hour."
It takes Elsa way less than an hour. More like thirty minutes. Even while driving below the suburban speed limits. She spends the next half-hour tapping her fingers on the steering wheel and waiting for the exact minute to pull into the driveway of Anna's modest, one-storey home. Elsa's black Mercedes looks out of place next to Anna's work truck, bristling with ladders and cables. But she knocks on her door anyway. A voice calls out from within.
"Come in! The door's unlocked."
Goddamn, is there any risk this girl doesn't take?
The house is neater than she expected. Simple wooden furniture interspersed with potted plants. Only a shoe rack with pairs of neatly-lined safety boots confirms Anna's occupation. The crime rate in the suburb immediately drops out of her mind when Anna emerges into the living room. Hair soaking wet. Falling in springy, copper tendrils upon her violet, floral bathrobe. "I'm terribly sorry," Anna apologises, "I didn't expect you'd come exactly on time and I barely had time to get dressed."
Now she's really relieved she'd come on the dot. Otherwise she might've walked in on a wet and naked Anna. Maybe that'd be a good thing.
Wait, why the hell would that be a good thing?
Elsa mentally glues her jaw shut before it falls off her head. She struggles to piece together her next words, before retrieving the forms from her briefcase. Her trembling hands fumble with the stack and she drops it onto her pristine wooden floor.
"Oh dear," Anna exclaims, scrambling to help Elsa with the mess.
No, no, no! Don't come closer!
The intense strawberry fragrance from Anna's shampoo hits her like a flying brick. She screws her eyes shut and resists the urge to pass out at the scent. It doesn't help unravel the paper mess. She opens her eyes again to the sight of Anna's barely-there neckline speckled with freckles. Cleavage sloping tantalisingly out of reach beneath her thin bathrobe. Heat rushes into Elsa's face, and then to a single point below her navel. She manages to get the forms onto a coffee table. Flustered at the out-of-order pages, and even more aggravated when Anna signs on the dotted line without a hitch.
"I thought you said you read the fine print."
"Maybe I will, later," Anna chirps, "you seem kinda anxious to get out of here so I don't want to hold you up. Besides, I trust you."
Elsa stares at the redheaded girl blankly. Not even realising she's waiting for a reply. Not realising this is the first bit of eye contact they've had today. Or how hard her chest heaves beneath her blouse. It feels so out-of-control for Elsa, and the sensation manifests as a rush of static through her face.
"A-are you that easily trusting?"
"You're an actuary aren't you? All facts and numbers. Of course I'd trust someone like you."
"I'm your underwriter."
"Don't you have to be an actuary before being an underwriter?"
The sudden display of knowledge towards her supposedly obscure profession raises Elsa's eyebrows, "D-did you know this beforehand? Or did you look it up?"
Anna's lips widen at the accusation, she hesitates on her next words, "Yes, actually. I looked it up after I met you."
"Why would you do that?"
The second hand of Anna's grandfather clock ticks by in thick, gluey silence.
"Because I'm curious about you."
Elsa sucks in a deep breath. This time, she can add a throbbing chest to the list of ailments assailing her typically stoic demeanour. She tucks an invisible fringe behind her ear, before looking at Anna's bare feet nestled in a woolly rug.
"Well, I'm flattered Ms Miller-"
"Anna."
"I'm flattered, Anna," Elsa concedes, "I admit I'm slightly curious about you too, like - why a young woman is working in construction. Or why you've so many pairs of boots."
"It's just something I followed my dad in - and the boots are for different safety requirements. Working with electricity, the outdoors, stuff like that."
"So you do know something about risk management."
The smile on Anna's face fades, "Are you accusing me of being reckless, Ms Williams?"
A stuttering mess leaves Elsa's jaw, "Um, judging from your claims history, yes? And the fact you left your door unlocked before I came over."
Anna slaps her forehead, "Oh c'mon - cut me a break! You insurance people are all the same aren't you? A head full of fears yet void of common sense - I bet you look both ways twice before crossing the road!"
The sudden change of Anna's tone sends Elsa shifting backwards, "I didn't drive here to have you denigrate my profession-"
"What're you going to do, adjust my premiums upwards?"
"I might."
"Will that mean I'll get to see you in your stuffy lil' office cubicle more often?"
Elsa's eyes widen with ambivalence. There's a burning heat behind her cheekbones, and her heart's racing. No-one's ever made her feel this way. All warm and flustered and with no way of getting the words that matter out of the tangled spaghetti in her head.
I just don't want to see you get hurt.
A beeping alarm from her phone makes her flinch. She dreads looking down and realising her allotted time is up.
"Tell you what," Elsa passes her card to Anna, "shoot me a text anytime you need your risk assessments adjusted."
The girl's still staring at the card as Elsa drives off, not knowing she's pulled over out of sight. With her whitened, shaking knuckles gripping the wheel. Elsa makes one last glance in the mirror to ensure no one's watching. Before butting her head on the wheel.
You fucking ruined it! She was totally into you and you blew it!
Anna wipes the sheen of sweat off her forehead as she steps back into the air-conditioned comfort of her shop office. She tosses her helmet into a corner, and makes a beeline for Gerda's desk.
"Is the-"
"Mail's in, hun," the admin replies, handing a stack to Anna - who fails spectacularly at keeping the glee beaming on her face, "are you expecting something? Because you've been asking-"
"Just wanted to check the insurance."
"I've never seen you this excited about paying your bills, sweetie."
Me neither.
Her hands vibrate with energy, and she nearly tears the bill in half while opening the envelope. She compares the bill with one from last year's, slumping back in her chair when the amount is exactly the same.
Thoughts race through her mind. It's a win-win situation, isn't it? She ponders. If her premiums were adjusted, she'd have a reason to call Elsa and give her an earful. Just to hear that gorgeous voice again. If they hadn't changed, however…
Elsa's card lays on the corner of her desk beside boxes of rivets and drywall screws. The only uncluttered spot untouched for the entire month since they last met. She picks up her phone. Heart in her throat. Flexing her fingers before texting Elsa.
Hey I received the first bill and its unchanged. Thanks so much for doing this for me. Let me take you out for dinner sometime.
And Anna's unable to concentrate on anything for the next half an hour. She nearly electrocutes herself while fixing a drill. And misses Gerda's questions more than once. When the chime on her phone lights up, she trips over her boots scrambling to pick it up. The reply punches her so hard in her gut, she might as well have taken another fall from the second storey.
Thanks for the invitation, Anna. I'm sorry but I'll have to decline this.
"What?" Anna screeches. She nibbles on her nails, not caring they're dirty from a day of work. Immediately, she recalls every single one of their sparse interactions. Perhaps she was rude to her at her home? Or she just wanted to keep a distance? Or, how about - she's just not into you?
A bubbling wave of hurt and panic sweeps through Anna's face. She feels the tears coming, and chokes them back as hard as she can. When the next message from Elsa hits her inbox, she hesitates to open it - afraid it'll send her spiralling into a crying fit. But some people are worth the risk, no?
Unless, of course - you're willing to split checks with me, because I'm not allowed to accept gifts from customers.
"Oh my god!" Anna seethes. She nearly hurls her phone across the office. In her relief-induced catharsis, she almost misses Elsa's next text.
Even someone as pretty as you.
Anna's heart swells. She grips the phone with shaking fingers, poring over every single word. All at once she's on a rollercoaster, being brought to giddy lows and highs from a straitlaced woman who knows nothing about the dangers of triple-texting. She ponders doing the same back to Elsa. Before she can, a Google calendar invite lands in her inbox. It's a fancy restaurant. Too fancy for someone like her. But the prospect of seeing Elsa again is too good to pass up. She'd meet Elsa on the moon if she had to.
That looks like a fancy place, do I have to wear a dress?
This time, the next three replies hit her one after another without delay.
Yes.
If you want your premiums adjusted.
(Downwards)
A grin breaks out on Anna's face. Tongue between her lips, she starts typing back.
Not fair. I thought you can't accept gifts from customers.
(It's me)
(I am the gift)
And Elsa's attention must've been piqued, because the reply comes immediately.
you'd be the best gift I've received all year.
A moment ago, she was sure Elsa never wanted anything to do with her. Now, the thrill of the chase proves too much to resist, and she risks pushing Elsa's boundaries further yet.
idc you've to wear a dress to make it even.
It has to be cute. No blazers.
And Elsa's last reply returns a trickle of sweat to her forehead.
Make me.
The address Elsa gave her had a parking lot full of Bentleys and Jaguars. Anna opts to wait in her truck, parked in the shadows away from the glitzy lights illuminating immaculately dressed dinner guests. Unaccustomed to being early, Anna waits until she sees Elsa arrive exactly on time. Stilettos and black dress looking like she's arriving at the Oscars. Her blonde hair had been let down, swept over her shoulders as she drops her keys to the valet. Light, natural makeup accentuates her sharp features. The sight propels Anna forward like a bulldozer.
"You trusted the valet with your fancy car," Anna quips, drawing Elsa's attention, "so much for being a risk-averse woman."
There's a palpable pause as Elsa catches sight of Anna. She feels the Underwriter's gaze roving up and down her dress. The slightest gap appears between Elsa's scarlet-touched lips. A movement Anna catches onto.
"How do I look?" Anna asks, doing a twirl, and fluttering the pleats of her emerald dress beneath the moonlight, "Good enough for adjusted rates?"
Elsa's eyes are still lost, somewhere between the curve of her waist and the hemline. It takes forever before they lock on her eyes. And another eternity before she manages to stammer, "I-I don't know. We'll see. You look fabulous tonight, Ms Miller."
"So do you!" Anna chirps, "I bet you must be dying to get out of that stuffy suit all the time."
She pauses. Her voice drops to a whisper beneath her breath, "No matter how sexy it makes you look."
Elsa playfully slaps her arm with a Chanel purse, "I heard that!"
"No regrets saying it," Anna retorts. But the blush on her cheeks tells otherwise. And so does her distracted gaze as they sit down for dinner, unopened menus before them as Elsa asks everything about her job and how she started. The subdued lighting and soft jazz music and cream table linens do well at blurring everything outside their leather-lined dining booth. The waiter finally gets their orders on the third round. Though, neither can remember what they ordered. Time sweeps by too quickly. Between morsels of fillet mignon and foie gras, Anna regales Elsa with stories of all the accidents and near-misses she's suffered.
"And if my father ever told me that I'd one day have to rappel down a sixty-foot facade just to fix some cladding, I'd have picked a different career. Maybe insurance."
Elsa chortles, nearly choking on her souffle, "Aren't you afraid of the risks associated with this job?"
"Things are different when we don't have a choice - it's all for a living."
"Aren't you ever afraid of heights?"
Anna pauses her chewing.
"I was?" she piques, "I mean I still am - sorta. But I do it anyway. Even if I didn't have to make a living, I'd still like to make my dad proud."
She can see Anna's calloused fingers grasping her dessert fork. Toned forearms taut beneath the dim candlelight. The thought dawns upon Elsa long after she's absent-mindedly paid the entire bill with her credit card. And she imagines the same apprehension written on Anna's freckled face as she looks away.
They're from completely different worlds.
Still - a trace of longing laces Anna's voice at the parking lot, "I think I need to walk off the wine before driving home."
"I'm so sorry, I wouldn't have ordered alcohol if I knew you were driving."
"Now, now - Ms Risk-averse, are you going to lecture me about the risks of drink-driving? Because I recall you showing up in a car-"
"There's a statistical threshold for this - I'm sure one glass of wine isn't going to do us in."
Anna offers no retort aside from a gentle smile. And when Elsa offers the crook of her elbow to cross the road - Anna finds it impossible to resist latching onto the comfort of her arm. The moonlight gleams off the river's still waters - and the evening dew's fragrance is faint in the air. Along their walk, Anna makes out the glittering city lights in the distance, its silent glow echoing the nameless lives still toiling within. She wonders about the odds of reaching into one of those lights and finding someone like Elsa. This lady beside her. With all the poise and mannerisms of some far-off European Queen wrapped in the trappings of Corporate monotony.
They barely make it a hundred yards before Anna points out the renovated concert hall on the riverbank, "I worked on this project - took us nearly a year."
Elsa pauses. Her fingers curl from the memory - she looks down at her heels.
"And I played there once," Elsa whispers, "I was a guitarist in high school."
The admission perks Anna's curiosity, "You were? W-what made you choose a career in insurance?"
"You can guess," Elsa shakes her head, "My parents told me it was the safe thing to do. I was good at maths. It had a proven career path with the least risk. I could play guitar on the side - and I still do."
Anna frowns and crosses her arms. There's a silent melancholy that drapes Elsa. For some reason, it raises a wave of heat that bristles Anna's skin, and she knows it's not the wine.
"Do you know what's the deadliest job in America?" Anna asks.
The out-of-nowhere question raises Elsa's eyebrows, but she replies without a hitch, "Forestry loggers."
"No - it's the President of the United States," Anna replies, looking Elsa dead in the eyes, "four deaths and four assassinations out of 44. Pretty much a one-in-seven chance of dying."
"Well, if you put it that way-"
"Somehow this doesn't stop people fighting tooth-and-nail for the job every four years."
Elsa doesn't even realise they've stopped pacing the pavement, and for a moment - all the statistics in the world fades from her mind, supplanted by the intensity of Anna's eyes beneath the dim streetlights.
"My point is," Anna's lips purse into a line, "Some things in life can't be boiled down to risk. Or a percentage. Some things in life just have to be done - no matter what the cost is."
She can feel Elsa's arm going stiff. The woman's gaze flung far off into the distance. There's nothing else Anna could say which'd make it better. There's a world of words she could say that'd sure as hell make it worse. So, they head back. They spend the entire walk back to the parking lot in deafening silence. Anna doesn't even have to turn to know Elsa's been staring at her the whole time. She doesn't have to look into her eyes to see the thoughts churning around her head. Still, she leans against her work truck, not caring about the rust soiling her green dress.
"Will I see you again?" Anna asks, reaching into the glovebox and passing her own name card to Elsa, "Or do I have to get myself injured?"
The valet calls Elsa's name from afar. She bites down on her lip as she takes Anna's card. There's an invisible string still tethering her chest to the girl before her, but she snaps it with an imperceptible shake of her head. Elsa extends her hand, "You've been a pleasant company, Ms Miller."
They soak in the warmth of each other's touch for the last time. Slender fingers and calloused palms.
Neither wanting this night to end.
And neither wanting to let go.
None of the half-dozen songs Elsa composes and strums to herself over the next month can rid her mind of Anna's smile. Her desk is more cluttered than usual, a single name card adorning its austere desolation: ANNA MILLER - DIRECTOR, MILLER ENGINEERING & CONSTRUCTION.
She would've framed it up if she could. Or just texted Anna back.
Perhaps it would've stopped the accident claim from landing on Elsa's desk with Anna's name printed at the top. Courtesy of Mercylight Trauma Centre.
"Oh no," Elsa slumps into her chair, inevitable dread gnawing away at her, "no, no, no-"
Fumbling fingers dial Anna's number. No answer. Neither is the frantic text of: Ms Miller, I've received an accident claim with your name on it. Please let me know you're alright.
She doesn't so much as think before getting out of her cubicle and buying the most expensive bouquet of flowers downstairs. Scribbling what she truly felt into a card and breaking all the speed limits on the way to the hospital. Freaking texting and driving when Anna doesn't answer her calls.
plz anna plzplzplx tell me ur ok :( Im freakin out rn
When she reaches, it only takes a few minutes of searching before she finds Anna in the ER corridor. Arms folded as she peers within a ward.
She's fine. She's standing right there. Not maimed or burnt alive or electrocuted like any of the dozen harrowing scenarios that plagued her mind.
The sight freezes Elsa in place, a bouquet of Carnations dangling from her hand. Anna spots the primly dressed woman in a dark suit amongst the bustle of white-frocked nurses moving about in a blur, and trots over. Drawn to the woman like a magnet.
"Elsa?" Anna asks, brushing her elbow, "What're you doing here?"
It'd been only a month, but the girl's delicate features sends a rush of warmth into her face - like the first day they met. Her trembling lips struggle to piece a reply.
"I received a claim from you," Elsa answers, "and I came over."
Anna ponders, before she turns and points at the ward, "An employee of mine got injured. Some asshole drove a JCB into him. He's fine though, will be out tomorrow."
"Oh."
Anna looks at the flowers. The card's half-propped open between flower petals, neat handwriting visible beneath the glaring hospital lights.
I JUST DON'T WANT TO SEE YOU GET HURT.
PLEASE GET WELL SOON
"D-did you think I was injured?" Anna asks.
Elsa slams a hand against her forehead, "I'm such a fucking idiot aren't I?"
The rare display of emotion sends Anna surging forward.
"No, no, no," Anna whispers, wrapping her arms around her. Not caring that she smells like sawdust and motor oil. Or that they're standing in the middle of a busy hospital corridor. The flowers drop to a chair as Elsa breathes in every last trace of this girl's presence.
"You're here in the middle of a work day," Anna asks, "What'd you tell your colleagues? That you're visiting a customer?"
Elsa shakes her head, "A loved one."
Rough, dirty fingers thread through hers.
"And what if they caught you lying?"
"I wasn't lying."
Anna smiles, and looks down at her boots. Perched a miniscule distance from Elsa's Louboutins.
"Is this you saying that you love me?"
Once again, Anna's question catches her off guard. Her brain's still frazzled from the drive, from seeing Anna uninjured. From everything. She struggles with a reply.
"Look, Anna - I-I don't know. I j-just wanted to make sure-"
A single finger on Elsa's lips cuts her off, "Stop."
"You've already broken so many rules coming here," Anna's voice grows heavy, "I'm not going to place any more rules on you."
Elsa ruffles a hand through her hair. Some strands come out of place, but she doesn't even care anymore.
"Just forget everything for a moment," Anna whispers, before her eyes flutter shut, "pretend you're not an underwriter. I don't work in construction. And it's just the two of us. Tell me what you really feel."
She waits there with closed eyes, unsure of what Elsa's next words will be. Instead of a stuttering sentence, Anna feels the faintest of breaths upon her lips. Before it melts into a gentle kiss. Her mind goes blank for a moment. Her face numb with pleasure. Right before she cradles Elsa's jaw and kisses her back.
There's an audible gasp when they part. The scent of Elsa's Dior perfume gives way to antiseptic as reality swims back around them.
Anna's eyes are still heavy-lidded. Despite the verbose chattering Elsa's adored her for, there's only one word left on her lips. Like the entire English lexicon had been stolen from her by a single kiss.
"Why?"
This time, there's barely a trace of hesitation behind Elsa's words, "Because I can't risk living the rest of my life without knowing what that felt like."
Anna touches a finger to her lips, and her voice shakes, "Y-yea, some things aren't worth the risk."
