“You can go home,” he says, voice controlled. “When you’re steady.”
“I am steady.”
He looks at me for a long second.
Then he lifts his chin toward the glass in my hand. “How many sips is that?”
I blink. “What?”
“Count them.”
I stare. “Are you serious?”
His mouth twitches. “Deadly.”
I narrow my eyes. “Three.”
He nods like that proves something. “You’re rationing.”
I open my mouth—and realize he’s right.
I am rationing.
Like my body doesn’t trust that safe things stay safe.
Heat crawls up my neck, equal parts embarrassment and fury at myself for being so… visible.
Derek’s voice softens. “Audra.”
My name on his tongue should not do what it does. Should notmake me think of long nights with him between the sheets of his bed. Sweaty, heart stopping-love making.
I force myself to meet his gaze. “I don’t want to be treated like I’m fragile.”
His expression tightens. “Good. Because you’re not.”
Then, after a beat, he adds, quieter, “But you were hurt. And I don’t—” He stops, jaw working. Like the rest of the sentence doesn’t fit in his mouth.
I don’t let him off the hook. “You don’t what?”
His eyes flash—irritation first, because I pushed.
Then honesty, because he’s tired and I’m here and last night changed something.
“I don’t like seeing you like that,” he admits.
The room goes still.
Not tense.
Just… full.
My pulse thrums in my ears.
“Like what?” I ask, even though I know.
“Not in control,” he says. “Not sharp. Not… you.”
I swallow hard.
