“I should go.”
He rises with me. “I’ll walk you out.”
“I’m fine.”
“Not the point.”
I'm too tired to argue, so I just nod and follow him back to my cubicle to grab my things.
The thirty-seventh floor is completely empty now, just the two of us and the emergency lights leaving shadows across the desks.
When the elevator arrives with a soft ding, we step inside. Donovan presses the button for the lobby, and the doors close, sealing us in.
By the time we reach the ground floor, the lobby is quiet, just the night guard and the soft hum of air conditioning.
We step through the exits and out into the humid night, the streetlights casting a soft sheen over the sidewalk.
It’s quieter than usual for Manhattan—just the low murmur of a late cabs and the distant bass of music from a rooftop bar nearby.
I start toward the subway entrance when I notice it—
A black car idling at thecurb.
Sleek.
Expensive.
I pause. “That’s not—”
“It’s for you,” Donovan says simply, not breaking stride.
I blink. “I didn’t call a car.”
“I did.”
“When?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
There’s no smugness in his voice. No teasing.
Just a quiet expectation that I won’t argue.
And I don’t.
Because I’m too tired.
Because the thought of being jostled by strangers on the subway makes my bones ache.
Because part of me—the reckless, traitorous part—likes that he noticed.
Thathe acted.
The driver steps out and opens the back door without a word, I hesitate for half a second, turning back to Don.
His eyes are unreadable in the streetlight.
I shrug. “I could’ve taken the subway.”
