She hesitates, clearly torn between accepting help and maintaining her distance. Finally, she extends her hand with obvious reluctance.
I take it in both of mine, and the contact sends electricity shooting through every nerve ending I have.
Her skin is soft and cold, her fingers slender and strong. I can feel her pulse jumping under my thumb as I gently rub warmth back into her palm, my calloused fingers rough against her smooth skin.
"Better?" I ask, though I don't let go. Can't let go.
"Yes," she whispers, and her voice is breathless, barely audible over the wind that's picked up between us.
I look up and find her watching me, pupils dilated despite the bright morning sun. We're standing close now, close enough that I can see the faint freckles scattered across her nose like stars, close enough to catch the scent of her shampoo, something clean and simple that somehow drives me half out of my mind.
My hands are shaking.
When was the last time my hands shook? Afghanistan, maybe. The first time I had to return fire.
"Gabriel," she says softly, and the sound of my name on her lips does something dangerous to whatever control I thought I had left.
This is a mistake. She's young, she's vulnerable, she's got secrets. She's everything I should stay away from, everything my training and experience tell me is off-limits.
But when she looks at me like that. Like I'm something worth wanting instead of something to fear, I forget every reason why this is impossible.
I lean closer, and she doesn't pull away. Doesn't run, doesn't flinch, doesn't do any of the smart things she should do.
I can feel her pulse jumping under my thumb where I'm still holding her hand, and I wonder if she can sense the way my heart is hammering against my ribs through the connection between us.
"This is a bad idea," I murmur, even as my face moves toward hers, drawn by gravity or madness.
"The worst," she agrees, but she's leaning in too.
We're sharing the same breath now, her lips just inches from mine. All I would have to do is close the distance, and I'd finally know what she tastes like.
Finally know if the chemistry between us is as explosive as it feels, if this thing that's been building between us is real or just my imagination.
But at the last second, sanity reasserts itself like a cold slap.
I pull back, dropping her hand, I take a step away. The loss of contact is immediate and devastating, like losing a limb. Like watching the sun go out.
"I can't," I say roughly, my voice barely recognizable. "This isn't... I shouldn't have..."
Lucy stares at me for a moment, hurt and confusion and something that might be anger warring in her expression. Then she nods once, sharp and final.
"You're right," she says, her voice carefully controlled in a way that tells me she's had practice swallowing disappointment. "Of course you're right."
She starts to walk away again, and I know I should let her go. Know that this is the smart choice, the professional choice, the choice that won't get us both in trouble.
Instead, I call out: "Lucy."
She stops but doesn't turn around.
"This thing between us," I say, my voice rough with everything I'm not saying, everything I can't afford to want. "It's not over."
She does turn then, and the look in her eyes is equal parts promise and warning, heat and hurt all tangled together.
"Then next time," she says quietly, and there's steel in her voice despite the softness, "don't make me want something you're not willing to give."
And with that, she's gone, leaving me standing alone on the sidewalk with the taste of almost on my lips and the certainty that I've just made the biggest mistake of my career.
Maybe my life.
