“Couple days since you ate properly or couple days since you went home?”
“Both.”
Dom was quiet for a moment. Then he reached across me—close enough that I could feel his body heat, smell that sandalwood scent that made my brain do inconvenient things—and turned off my camera.
“Hey—”
“You're done for tonight.”
“I'm in the middle of a job.”
“You got your photos. I saw the timestamp.” He settled back, somehow taking up even more space. “Holloway gave you everything you need thirty minutes ago. Now you're sitting here running surveillance you don't need because stopping means thinking, and thinking means acknowledging you're running yourself into the ground.”
The accuracy of that made irritation spike. “You don't know what I'm thinking.”
“Don't I?” His mouth curved slightly. Not quite a smile. “You're obsessed with a case that's eating you alive. You work until you collapse because exhaustion is easier than grief. You avoid anything that feels like self-care because taking care of yourself feels like giving up.”
“That's a lot of psychological analysis from someone who just broke into my car.”
“Didn't break. You left it unlocked.” He gestured at the door. “Which tells me you're even more distracted than I thought. When's the last time you had a proper meal?”
“Define proper.”
“Food. Actual food. Not whatever that is.” He pointed at the fossilised sandwich.
I couldn't actually remember. Yesterday maybe? The day before? “Why do you care?”
“Because I'm trying to decide if working with you is brilliant or suicidal. And I can't make that call if you're half-dead from exhaustion.” His eyes held mine. “So here's what's going to happen. You're going to let me drive you somewhere that serves actual food. You're going to eat. And then we're going to have a conversation about whether this partnership actually makes sense.”
“Operational sustainability.”
He reached for the keys still dangling from the ignition. “I'm driving.”
“Like hell you are.”
“You're in no state to operate a vehicle safely. So either you move to the passenger seat voluntarily, or I move you myself.” His voice stayed calm but carried weight. “If I'm going to consider working with you, I need to know you're not going to collapse mid-investigation.”
“You're evaluating me.”
“I'm making sure my potential partner is worth the risk.” His eyes held mine. “Your choice.”
We stared at each other. The car felt too small, too warm, pressure building between us like weather about to break. Part of me wanted to argue purely on principle. The other part—the part that was exhausted and hungry and tired of fighting everything alone—wanted to let him take control just this once.
“Fine,” I said. “But if you crash my car, I'm billing you for repairs.”
“Noted.” But he didn't move. Just waited, one eyebrow raised.
“What?”
“You need to get out of the driver's seat.”
“You said I could choose to move voluntarily.”
“I did. You choosing?”
“You're enjoying this,” I said.
“Immensely.” His mouth curved properly now. Actual smile. “Come on, Cal. Don't make me manhandle you in a car park.”
