“Not a chance.”
As I rinse the dishes, I glance over my shoulder. She’s leaning back in her chair, watching me like she’s trying to figure me out. I can almost hear what she’s thinking—why I’m doing this, why do I care.
Truth is, I don’t have an answer.
I just know that walking away from her now isn’t an option.
“I really do have to check in on Olga,” she says casually.
I raise a brow. “You just saw her yesterday.”
“She needs help in the mornings,” Sabrina says, matter-of-fact. “I promised I’d stop by for a few hours.”
I frown, imagining the frail old woman struggling with breakfast or stairs. “You shouldn’t be doing that alone.”
She tilts her head, confused for half a second before smirking. “I think I’ll manage.”
“I’ll send someone to help,” I say automatically. “Or better yet, I’ll come by tonight. Make sure she’s all right.”
Her smirk widens into a grin she tries to hide behind her coffee cup. “You… want to check on Olga?”
“Yes,” I answer, dead serious. “If she needs help, she’s going to get it.”
She bites her lip to keep from laughing, the sound that escapes her a soft, choked giggle. “You’re really something else, Blackwell.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” she says quickly, standing from the table. “You do that. Check on Olga.”
I narrow my eyes, but she’s already moving toward the sink, rinsing her cup.
We go back and forth for another ten minutes about her moving in—me insisting, her pretending she has a choice—until I finally pin her down with logic and sheer persistence.
She groans, head falling back dramatically. “You don’t give up, do you?”
“Not when it comes to you.”
That gets her quiet. She looks at me for a long beat before shaking her head and heading toward the door. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when Olga bites.”
“Bites?” I echo, frowning. “Maybe I should send someone.”
The drive to Sabrina’s apartment is quiet, but not tense.
It’s the kind of quiet that feels like something—comfortable, full of words we haven’t figured out how to say yet.
She’s staring out the window, hair pulled over one shoulder, sunlight catching every red strand. The sight does something to me every time.
I grip the steering wheel tighter than necessary. Get a hold of yourself, Blackwell.
“I’m walking you in,” I reply easily.
She looks at me like I’ve said something absurd. “Langston, I’m not fragile. It’s broad daylight.”
I cut the engine and turn toward her. “I didn’t say you were fragile. I said I’m walking you in.”
Her lips twitch, like she’s fighting a smile. “You really don’t know how to lose, do you?”
“Not when it matters.”
