"I changed your sheets first."
The kindness and the violation wound together into the same act. I open my mouth. Close it.
"The laptop." He nods toward it. "What's it for?"
"I'm a writer. It's how I work."
"Can it be tracked?"
"No. It's airgapped. The prosecution gave it to me specifically because it can't be traced."
"Airgapped doesn't mean safe. It means harder to trace." He uncrosses his arms. "I should destroy it."
I cross to the coffee table, snatch the laptop, and clutch it to my chest. "You can't."
"I can. And I should. I don't know Carver. I don't know what's on that machine or who's had access to it."
"Carver gave it to me to keep my mind off the case." I force my voice steady. "To give me something to do. Writing is how I stay sane. You take this away, and you're stuck in a cottage with a woman who has nothing to do but pace and spiral for a week."
He studies me. I can see him calculating—the risk of the laptop versus the risk of me spiraling completely.
"You want me calm? You want me manageable? Let me keep it."
A muscle in his jaw twitches.
"It stays off unless you're using it," he says finally.
"Fine."
"And if I find out it's not as clean as you think it is, I burn it. No discussion."
"Fine."
He watches me. Processing. Those amber eyes missing nothing.
"You've thought this through."
"I've had weeks to think everything through." I clutch the laptop tighter. "You could have asked."
"And you could have been forthcoming from the start."
"I don't know you."
"Exactly." He crosses his arms. "And I don't know you. So I checked."
"You're not going to ask next time either, are you? Next time something bothers you, you're going to handle it."
"Probably."
"At least you're honest."
"Only virtue I've got."
There's something almost like humor in his voice. It catches me off guard.
The tension loosens, a fraction. And then his gaze drops again and travels down. Takes in the black shirt hanging off my shoulder, the hem falling past my knees, my bare calves underneath.
He doesn't look away.
