"You don't know that."
"Yeah, I do." I hold her gaze. "You don't cut corners. You triple-check everything. I've seen how you work."
"You've watched me work."
"That's enough."
She studies me across the table, something unguarded in her expression. Like she's been waiting for someone to say exactly that and didn't realize how much she needed to hear it.
"Thank you," she says quietly.
"You're welcome."
We finish eating. The conversation drifts to lighter topics—her telling me about medical school disasters, me sharing deployment stories that are funny now but weren't at the time. The weight of the day eases.
I pay over her protests. The drive back to her apartment is quiet but comfortable. The streets are emptier this time of night.
I catch her watching me in my peripheral vision. When I glance over, she doesn't look away.
"What?" I ask.
"Thinking."
"About?"
"About how you knew I needed to get away before I even knew it myself."
I don't have a good answer for that, so I don't try to give one.
The parking lot is well-lit and secure. I scan it anyway, instinct never quite letting go. At her door, she unlocks it and we step inside. I close the door behind us.
"Give me a minute." I move through the apartment quickly—bedroom clear, bathroom clear, balcony door secure. Everythingas it should be. When I come back to the entry, she's still standing there, waiting.
I reach for the deadbolt to lock it, and she's right there. Close enough that I catch the scent of her shampoo—something clean and simple. The hallway light catches the gold flecks in her eyes.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "For tonight. For understanding that I needed to get away."
"Anytime."
She looks up at me, and the space between us narrows to nothing but electricity and want. All that awareness we've been dancing around for days suddenly sharpens into focus. Her lips part slightly, and I watch her pulse jump in her throat.
Kissing her would be easy. Every instinct I've got is screaming at me to close the distance, to find out if her lips are as soft as they look. My hand comes up of its own accord, and I catch myself before my fingers brush her cheek. She leans in, just slightly.
But I step back and put deliberate distance between us.
"Get some sleep. I'll be down the hall if you need anything."
Her expression goes blank for a beat. Then something that looks like anger flashes across her face before she masks it.
"Right." Her voice is tight. "Goodnight, Thatcher."
She turns toward her bedroom, then stops. Turns back.
"You know what? No. This is getting ridiculous."
I blink. "What is?"
"This." She gestures between us. "You look at me like that, you take my hand, you bring me to dinner and tell me my parents are wrong, and then you just—" She makes a frustrated sound. "What are you doing?"
