This is stupid. I interrogate men for a living. I extract truths with fear and blood and leverage. But the idea of asking Elias anything—of prying something open and finding it fragile—makes my chest tighten.
Still, the questions have been circling since the bath. Since the way he trusted me to touch him gently.
“What do you like to watch?” I ask finally.
He blinks. “Movies?”
“Yes. Movies,” I repeat, like I haven’t just dismantled entire organizations without batting an eye.
A slow smile spreads across his face. Not sharp. Not challenging. Just…fond. Like he finds me amusing.
“That’s what you’re thinking about?” he asks.
I shrug. “Seemed relevant.”
“To what?”
“To you. The situation.” I shrug averting my eyes to glance at the tv.
His smile softens further, something warm blooming behind his eyes. He tilts his head, studying me in a way that feels dangerously close to understanding.
“I like old stuff,” he says after a moment. “Black-and-white movies. Musicals. Things where people sing about their feelings instead of shooting each other.”
I huff. “Sounds unrealistic.”
“That’s the point,” he says easily. “I like stories where things work out. Where people get happy endings.”
My throat tightens. I nod once, committing it to memory like it’s a weapons schematic.
“Any favorites?” I ask.
“Singin’ in the Rain,” he says without hesitation. “AndRoman Holiday. Audrey Hepburn is perfect.”
I picture him watching those movies somewhere safe, tucked away from the world that sharpened him into a blade. The image doesn’t sit comfortably beside the reality of what his family handed him over to.
“Do you watch the Oscars?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He laughs outright at that, a bright, surprised sound. “You’re serious?”
I scowl. “I don’t tend to joke, sweetheart.”
“It’s a cute question,” he says, grinning. “Yes. I make a whole thing of it. I predict winners. I get mad when they snub people.My brothers used to pretend they didn’t care, but they always watched with me.”
Used to.
I let that hang between us, then carefully steer away from the edge.
“You dress up?” I ask.
“Obviously,” he says. “At least from the waist up. I critique the fashion like it’s my job.”
I shake my head. “I never would’ve guessed.”
“I know,” he says softly. “That’s why I like that you’re asking.”
That lands harder than I expect.
I shift slightly, and he instinctively adjusts with me, settling back into my lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His fingers trace idle patterns on my chest.
