I do.
I knew it the second she backed away from me last night, covering her face like she had committed some unforgivable act instead of kissing a man who had kissed her back.
I knew it when she apologized over and over. I knew it when she left with her spine too straight, pretending the exit was not a retreat.
“She thinks she lost control,” Teresa says quietly. “That will bother her more than…” Her eyes flicked toward me. “Whatever happened.”
I look sharply at her.
“Nothing happened,” I say calmly.
She does not believe me.
I stare at her.
She stares back.
I hate psychologists.
“I am not discussing this with you.”
“I don’t need the details.” She holds up one hand. “In fact, please never give me the details. But you need to be careful.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean with her. Not your rules. Not your job. Her.”
My expression hardens.
“Adrian, she is not fragile,” she says. “But she is raw right now. And if you treat her like she made some shameful mistake, she’ll turn that into armor.”
“I won’t.”
“Good.” She reaches for the mug and hands it to me again. “Because she’ll also try to pretend it didn’t happen.”
“I expect that.”
“And you?”
“I’ll let her.”
Teresa goes quiet.
I take the mug because fighting her over it is pointless and because it’s damn good coffee.
After a moment, she says, “Is that what you want?”
No.
The answer comes too fast inside my head.
“What I want is irrelevant.”
She shakes her head once; a small motion filled with old exasperation. “That is such a you answer.”
“It’s the correct one.”
“It’s the safest one.”
