I shake my head. “You don’t get to drop a tracking stat and then walk away. Are you getting a little obsessed with me?”
She spins so fast that I almost walk straight into her. “I am not obsessed with you, Mr. Thuddy.”
“That’sDoctorThuddy.”
I swear she’s seconds away from stomping her feet.
“I’m tired, Beckett.”
“That makes two of us. Now answer the question.”
She blows out a breath, throwing her arms out in pure frustration. “Fine. I’ve been tracking you. Not like a stalker. I’m not a psychopath. I’ve just… noticed your patterns.”
I stop walking. “Patterns?”
“Your shift patterns,” she clarifies. “This week, you finished around midnight. Last week—blissfully—you worked nights. You weren’t supposed to be home for another two hours. I was supposed to be asleep by the time you got on that damn treadmill,because you refuse to take any of my perfectly reasonable outdoor alternatives.”
I don’t have a good answer for her. Not one that would make sense to someone who handles crises with words rather than hands.
Outside is too open. When I run in the park, my thoughts either sprint ahead of me or disappear into the dark. I know some people want that kind of quiet, but I don’t. I need the noise contained. The burn in my lungs and the ache in my muscles keep the memories exactly where I can see them. All the demons in one room. If I’m lucky, I sweat them out.
I look at her then. Really look at her. I see the tired set of her shoulders and the shadows beneath her eyes. She looks like she’s bracing for a blow.
Guilt settles heavily in my gut.
“Goodnight, Doc.”
“You don’t take the elevator,” I point out.
Shut up, Beckett. Let her go.
She pauses with her hand on the railing. “How do you know that?”
“I’ve noticed some patterns too.”
She huffs a quiet, tired laugh. “I’m not good with small spaces.”
“I won’t run tonight.”
“Really?”
“Really. I’ll do some floor work. Quietly.” I hold out my hand. I’m not entirely sure why I want her to take it, but I do. “Temporary truce?”
Meeting my gaze, she exhales and takes it. Her hand is warm and much smaller than mine, yet her grip is firm. It lingers a beat longer than it needs to.
“Truce,” she agrees on a swallow.
As soon as she pulls her hand back, she turnstoward the stairs.
“Goodnight, Madison.”
“Night, Doc.”
A neighborly truce. We can do that.
It’s a safe, simple lie.
I let it sit there anyway.
