A laugh scraped my throat, surprising us both. She smiled, tired and wary, but it reached her eyes this time.
“Doctor says it was mostly smoke inhalation,” she continued. “Lungs are a little angry, but nothing permanent.”
I nodded, silent for a beat too long. The memory of her body pressed against mine as I carried her still clung to my hands. The scent of smoke in her curls, the way she had tucked herself under my chin like she belonged there. As if she trusted me.
“I should apologize,” she said suddenly, breaking eye contact. “About the?—”
“Don’t,” I interrupted. “Not here. Not now.”
She bit her lip. That damned lip. “But I—I mean, it’s a fireable offense, and I completely understand if you do terminate my employment.”
“Tashi,” I said, stepping closer. My voice dropped. “This is Vegas. I see worse things by the hour. And you’ve heard the slogan, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”
Her eyes lifted to mine, wide. I didn’t look away. I couldn’t. Because that photo didn’t make me angry. It didn’t make me judge her. It made me feel.
Desire, yes. That was the obvious part. But deeper than that? It was the look in her eyes in the photo. Rage and humiliation and power all tangled together. I knew someone had tried to hurt her on purpose, and every protective instinct I had surged up with a voice like thunder.
The air in the room turned colder. She looked down at her lap, then to the IV line in her hand. Her fingers curled tight.
“Even when I sext the group chat by mistake?” The smile returned to her face. Sharp and brave.
“Especially then.” I didn’t touch her, but I let my hand rest on the edge of the bed. Close enough that if she reached out, our fingers would meet.
She stared at my hand like it was a grenade with the pin pulled.
“I don’t understand,” she said finally. “I sent you—all three of you—a photo of my…” She gestured vaguely at her chest. “And then I nearly burned down your hotel. Most bosses would’ve escorted me out in handcuffs.”
“Most bosses,” I said carefully, “didn’t pull you out of that fire.”
Her eyes went liquid. Shit. I wasn’t supposed to make her cry.
“I don’t have anywhere to go,” she whispered. “The hotel room is—I assume it’s destroyed. My stuff. My laptop. Everything I brought.”
The laptop. Christ. I hadn’t even thought about her belongings.
“We’ll handle it,” I said. “Insurance, replacements, whatever you need.”
“And where am I supposed to stay?” Her voice cracked. “I can’t afford another hotel. I spent everything I had getting here, and my first paycheck isn’t for two weeks, and?—”
“Stop.” I moved closer, finally giving in and taking her hand. Her fingers were cold. “You’re not paying for anything. The hotel will cover your accommodations until we sort this out.”
“You mean until you fire me.”
“I’m not firing you, Tashi.”
“You should.” She pulled her hand back, wrapping both arms around herself like she was holding the pieces together. “I’m a disaster. A literal disaster; a fire-starting, inappropriate-sext-sending disaster.”
I wanted to tell her the fire wasn’t her fault. That someone had sabotaged that microwave deliberately. But the lawyers would have my ass if I admitted liability before the investigation concluded. So instead, I said, “You’re not a disaster. You’re having a bad day.”
She laughed, sharp and bitter. “A bad day. Right. That’s one way to describe professional suicide.”
“Tashi.” I waited until she looked at me. “Has it occurred to you that maybe—just maybe—we don’t want to fire you?”
Her eyes went wide. “Why not?”
Because when I carried you down those stairs, something shifted.
Because that photo showed me a woman who refuses to be a victim.
