“You okay?” Cillian’s voice carries through the door, low and threaded with something that cuts deeper than anger ever could.
“Stress,” I say, wiping my mouth and forcing the words out. “Just the pressure.”
He opens the door anyway.
He lingers in the doorway for a second, then steps inside and turns on the tap. Water runs. He wets a cloth and hands it to me without comment.
I rinse, fold it carefully, and sit on the edge of the tub until the last wave passes.
“You should lie down,” he says.
“I can’t. We’ve got the eastern files at ten.”
He studies me again, slower this time. “You look pale.”
I look directly into his eyes. “I am pale.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
He crouches in front of me and rests his forearms on his thighs. “If you’re sick, we call a doctor.”
“I’m not sick. I just haven’t slept.”
He nods once, though he doesn’t look convinced. “Take the morning off,” he says.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
I hold his gaze, then let it drop. “Fine,” I say quietly. “I’ll take an hour.”
He stands and steps back to give me space. “Text me when you’re back at your desk.”
“I will.”
He leaves, and I stay seated until I can trust my legs.
By nine I’m at my workstation, answering two emails and closing three tabs I don’t remember opening. The room feels close. I stand and walk to his office door.
He looks up immediately. “What.”
“I’m going to step out.”
He leans back in his chair. “You?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t step out.”
“I know.”
He waits.
“There’s a bakery near the harbor,” I say. “I haven’t been in months.”
He watches me like he’s trying to decide which part of that is true. “You don’t take breaks,” he says again.
