Something I haven't felt in years.
Tenderness.
"Sorry," she whispers.
"Don't be."
She moves to my shoulder, examining the fresh graze with those steady hands.
It's not deep—the bullet barely kissed me—but it's bleeding freely.
She finds the first aid kit mounted on the wall, pulls out gauze and antiseptic, and sets to work.
"This is going to sting."
"I've had worse."
"That doesn't make me feel better."
"Wasn't trying to make you feel better. Just stating a fact."
She looks up at me then, and we're close.
Too close.
I can see the flecks of darker blue in her eyes, the faint freckles across her nose, the way her lips part slightly as her breath catches.
Her hands have stopped moving.
The gauze presses against my shoulder, forgotten.
"You saved my life," she says quietly.
"It's my job."
"Is it?"
The question hangs between us. Loaded. Dangerous.
I should step back. Should put distance between us, remind myself that she's a principal, I'm protection, and this—whateverthisis—can't happen.
But I don't step back.
And neither does she.
"I don't know what you are," she whispers. Her hand is still on my arm, her thumb tracing an absent pattern against my bicep. "I don't know what any of this is. But when you looked at me last night..."
"Dalla."
"You looked at me like you wanted to consume me."
Christ.
"And right now," she continues, her voice barely audible, "you're looking at me the same way."
I am.
I know I am.
