The question is gentle, but I can hear the restraint in it. Like he wants to ask a hundred things and is choosing the one that matters most.
I swallow. “Pieces.”
His jaw flexes.
“The water,” I say. “The music… going weird.”
His eyes narrow. “Warped.”
“Yes.” I glance up at him. “How did you?—”
“You said it last night.” His voice is tight now. “You said the sound was wrong.”
I frown. “I did?”
He nods once.
I take the bottle and unscrew it, hands steady. That feels like another small miracle. I pour into the glass because it’s there, because he offered the option, because I’m realizing Derek Pierce does things in options.
Consent made practical.
I take a sip.
Cold. Clean. Real.
My throat loosens a fraction.
“Do you remember… the shoes?” I ask before I can stop myself.
His eyes flicker—annoyance, resignation, and something that might be amusement if he'd let it exist.
“My shoes,” he repeats flatly.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” he says immediately.
The speed of it startles me.
“That wasn’t on you,” he adds, voice lower.
I stare at him.
There it is again—that quiet certainty. That refusal to let me carry blame that doesn’t belong to me.
My eyes sting. It’s ridiculous. I’m not a crier. I’m an HR professional. I deal with grown men crying in conference rooms and do not absorb their emotions like a sponge.
But last night was a violation, and the aftermath is… care.
And care is the thing I don’t know how to hold without wanting to drop it.
I blink hard. “I hate this.”
His brows pull together. “Hate what?”
“Feeling like I’m… behind my own body.” I gesture vaguely at my head. “Like my reactions are delayed. Like I’m watching myself from ten feet away.”
His gaze softens in a way that makes my throat tighten all over again. “That’s normal.”
