She immediately leans her head against the window. Closes her eyes. Not sleeping. Just... resting.
I watch her in the dim light from passing streetlights. Watch the slow rise and fall of her breath. And I think:
Why does this feel significant?
Why does watching her breathe feel like data I need to collect and store and protect?
She’s exhausted, of course. It’s been a long week. Saying yes to every family that asks for help because she can’t stand the idea of leaving someone vulnerable. Even if I’m paying her 100K, ten hour days will wear anyone down. Not to mention she’s still carrying her full Manhattan caseload. I’ve watched her take client calls during lunch breaks. Seen her reviewing briefs at seven AM before the clinic opens. She’s running two full-time jobs and pretending it’s sustainable.
I’m going to make sure she doesn’t come in on the weekend. I don’t care if she argues. She needs rest and I need her functional for the long game.
This isn’t about wanting to take care of her. This is strategic resource management.
Except that’s bullshit and I know it.
I want her rested because seeing her exhausted makes something tighten in my chest that has nothing to do with strategy.
Fuck.
We pull up to her resort at nine fifteen. She opens her eyes immediately and sits straighter. “All right. See you tomorrow.”
“Take the weekend off,” I tell her.
She starts to argue. I see it in her eyes. That knee-jerk refusal to accept help.
“That’s not a request, Counselor. You’re no good to the families if you burn out after week one.”
Her mouth tightens. But she nods. “Fine. Monday, then.”
“Try not to spend the whole weekend on Manhattan clients,” I add.
She grunts noncommittally and climbs out. But then she pauses to look back at me through the open door. “Thank you. For tonight. The way you handled Patrick’s contract. That was good work.”
Then she’s gone. Walking across the resort courtyard. Canvas tote over her shoulder. Legal pad tucked under her arm.
I watch until she disappears inside.
Keon pulls away without comment, taking the service road that leads to the resort’s private villa section. Thorne stays quiet as well. The two of them know better than to acknowledge what just happened.
Whatdidjust happen?
I spent a week watching Amara Khan work. Brought her coffee. Checked the UV index like some kind of stalker.
I’m paying her 100K for six weeks of consulting work, and letting her take weekends off.
And I still can’t explain why any of it matters.
Five years ago I understood what I wanted.
Now?
Now I don’t understand a damn thing except that I can’t stop thinking about her.
Can’t stop noticing her.
It doesn’t make sense.
We barely know each other anymore.
