I take my hands back, and the air changes between us. Cooler. I don’t like it, but it’s the right move.
“Better?” I ask.
She nods. The dim panel light washes her face a soft gold. She’s steady, but the white of her knuckles on the rail gives her away.
“Good,” I say. “We’re going to make this easier.”
“How?” she asks, trying for light. It doesn’t quite come across.
“First rule,” I say. “We don’t stand here like statues.” I gesture toward the corner where the wall meets the floor. “Sit with me.”
Her eyes flick to the carpet, then back to the doors. “Sit?”
“It helps. Your body stops bracing for a drop that isn’t coming.” I keep my tone even and calm.
“And it steals power from the story your brain is trying to tell you.”
A beat while she considers it. I don’t rush her.
“Okay,” she says finally, small and brave.
I set my jacket down first, folded once, then twice, and slide it to the corner to make a barrier between her and the floor. “Here.”
“That’s your jacket,” she says.
“It’s a jacket,” I say. “It’ll survive.”
That gets the curve of a smile. She eases down carefully, one hand still on the rail, then another breath, and she lets go. Knees up, heels tucked close, back to the wall. She looks at me like she’s waiting to see if she’s done it wrong.
“Perfect,” I say. I lower myself beside her, leaving a responsible amount of space and feeling every inch of it.
The fan drones. The faint orange panel light illuminates us. Her breathing settles into something close to normal.
“Thank you,” she says, quietly.
“You don’t owe me thanks,” I say. “You’re the one doing the work.”
“I hate elevators,” she says, almost laughing at herself. “Add that to the file.”
“I don’t keep a file,” I say.
She tips her head. “Liar.”
My mouth almost answers with a smile before I stop it. “I keep lists. Not files.”
“Such a lawyer,” she says, and the joke shakes off another thin layer of fear. She scrubs a hand over her knee. “I’m not very good at… this.”
“Being human?” I ask.
“Not being in control,” she says. “Which, yes, I hear it. I just met you, and I’m confessing things to a man in a suit in a dark box. Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing. You’re doing fine,” I say. “Besides, suits hear confessions all day.”
She huffs a laugh. “Do you?”
“Sometimes.” I lean my head back to the wall and look up. The ceiling looks back, gray and featureless. “Usually about problems I can sign or charm away.”
She looks sideways at me. The light catches the blue in her eyes and turns it deep. “That must be nice.”
