Her hand drifted for the trackpad.
I caught it.
My palm covered hers, skin to skin against the cool plastic.
She snapped her attention to me.
I grabbed the pad with my free hand and wrote hard enough that the tip of the pen threatened to tear the paper.
Reactive. Knows something.
I let her read it.
She pressed her lips together.
“You might be right. If a random asshole is this agitated, then this thread hit somebody’s classified bingo card.”
She hesitated. “Was this a bad decision? There’s still time to delete it.”
She had a point, but we didn’t have much choice.
Let them talk and see. They are bound to make a mistake.
I pushed it between her hands.
She stared at the words for a long beat.
She wet her lower lip.
“You realize that’s not reassuring.”
I tilted my head. I meant it as fact, not comfort.
A short, wrecked sound. “Of course. Jesus. I partnered with the world’s most lethal optimist.”
She clicked the logout button.
The forum vanished. Desktop icons filled the display. She shut the laptop with more force than necessary, the plastic casing giving a faint protest.
“Enough for now. I don’t want to live inside the internet while Captain All-Caps has a meltdown. They can yell at the closed tab.”
She didn’t pull away.
Not calm, but no longer sprinting.
I let myself feel the shape of her bones under my palm, the fine tendons between thumb and wrist. Breakable. Stubborn.
Clare blew out a breath.
“Okay.” Lighter. “Reality check. We have half a sleeve of crackers, one sad orange, and those bus station gummy bears I regret buying. You need protein that isn’t neon-colored sugar. I need coffee before I start strangling anonymous surgeons through fiber optic cables.”
Her stomach growled as if on cue. She winced.
“See? My gut agrees.”
She slipped her fingers out from under mine. “Shops downstairs will still be open. Couple groceries, maybe a kebab place on the corner.”
The floorboards creaked under my feet as I stood up. I took a step forward, and the world tilted.
