"There's water on the nightstand," Liam said.
I flinched. Turned my head. He was behind me in the bed—propped on one elbow, watching me in the dim light. His hair was messy. His eyes were soft and tired and concerned in a way that made my chest ache.
He'd stayed. In my bed. All night.
"You stayed," I said.
"I promised I would."
I picked up the glass. Drank. Set it down. Tried to reassemble the pieces. Brick by brick. The composure. The control. The measured, calculated architecture that had kept me alive since I was fourteen.
"What time is it?"
"Four-something."
I nodded. Pressed my palms against my eyes again. Buying time. Trying to sort the fragments into something I could manage.
"Did I—" I stopped. The question was dangerous. The answer might be worse. "What did I say? When we got back here."
Maybe he didn't remember.
No. I was drunk. Not him.
"You said some things."
"What things?"
"Things you meant."
His voice was gentle.
But it was too late, the Harrington composure was reassembling. I was pissed at him for going to Braden. I needed to control this—him. I could feel it clicking into place—not because I wanted it, but because I didn't know how to exist without it. The walls going up. The mask sliding on.
My father's voice in my head:Control yourself, Alexander.
"You went to Braden," I said.
The gentleness left his eyes. Not all at once. But enough.
"Alex—"
"You went to Braden."
"Yeah. I did."
I picked up the water glass. Put it down without drinking. My hands were almost steady. Almost.
"After I asked you not to."
"I know."
"So why?"
He sat up. The blanket pooling around his waist. "Because he's been in my face for weeks and I couldn't—"
"You couldn't sit with it." I said it before he could finish. "You couldn't just let it be."
"Someone is threatening us. What was I supposed to do, nothing?"
