Her fingers were cold despite the warmth of the building. Small in mine. Delicate but not fragile. Strong in their own way.
She looked up at me, eyes wide with something between fear and hope and a dozen other emotions I couldn't name but recognized, anyway.
I could imagine what she was thinking.
What if he doesn't know anything useful?
What if this makes everything worse instead of better?
What if I don't actually want the answer I'm about to get?
What if the truth is uglier than not knowing?
I wondered briefly how pissed Connor was going to be when he inevitably found out I'd slipped out this morning despite him telling me very clearly—in that calm, measured tone that meant he was serious—that going anywhere wasn't a good idea right now. That staying put at The Sanctuary while Ellsworth handled surveillance and protection was the smart tactical move. The safe move.
But I wasn't going to break my promise to Ella.
Strike that.
I wasn't going to breakeitherpromise I'd made to myself somewhere between meeting her yesterday and standing here now—to help her find out what really happened to her sister, and to keep my fucking hands off her while I did it.
Though the second promise was getting harder and harder to keep with every passing minute. Every conversation. Every look. Every accidental touch that didn't feel accidental anymore.
Even now, standing in this quiet hallway looking down into her eyes, I could see straight down her top where the red sweater dipped slightly at the neckline. The soft curve of her breasts. The shadow between them. The pulse beating visibly at the base of her throat.
Fuck.
She had absolutely no idea how beautiful she was. Nervous or confident. Grieving or smiling. Maybe especially like this—vulnerable and brave at the exact same time, about to walk into something that might break her heart all over again.
"You think this is a good idea?" she asked quietly, voice barely above a whisper in the empty hallway. "Maybe we should just ... let him be. Leave him alone. Not disturb whatever he's dealing with."
"No," I said firmly, meaning every word. "You deserve answers. Real ones. This is your sister we're talking about. Your family. And who knows—" I paused, choosing words carefully even though I wasn't sure I believed them. "It might help him, too. Whatever he's carrying around. Sometimes talking about it makes it lighter."
I didn't exactly believe that last part. Not really.
Grief was grief. Heavy and permanent. Talking about it rarely made it weigh less, in my experience.
But I was trying very hard to be a good guy here. The kind who helped people instead of taking advantage of vulnerable moments. The kind who offered support instead of complications.
Not the kind who ripped off her clothes and fucked her against the nearest wall like my body kept insistently suggesting every time she got within three feet of me.
She nodded slowly, turning back to face the door with visible determination.
Then she paused mid-turn.
Turned back to me instead.
Smiled slightly, something nervous and brave and reckless flickering across her beautiful face.
"Can you kiss me?" she asked softly, eyes locked on mine. "Once. For good luck."
My brain short-circuited completely for half a second.
Every rational thought I'd been carefully maintaining just ... stopped.
I knew I was pressing my own luck here. Knew this was objectively a terrible idea. Knew I should say no, redirect gently, maintain professional distance like I'd been trying to do.
But I'd be a complete prick to refuse that request, right?
