There was an elevator.That was the next thing I was certain of, an elevator, and the elevator had a light that was doing me no favors. I was leaning against Cross in the way you leaned against the nearest solid object when the floor was making decisions without you.
He had one arm around me. I knew this because I could feel it, steady across my back, the same certainty as the alley wall except warmer.
"This isn't my building," I said.
"No."
"This is your building?"
"Yes."
I processed this. The elevator hummed. "You brought me to your apartment."
"You need monitoring overnight. Someone needs to wake you every two hours."
"Dylan would've—"
"Morrison would have ignored you until you were dying and called me in the morning anyway." Another pause. "I skipped the middle part."
That was. . . that was probably accurate.
And anyway, paparazzi. The thought arrived slow and sideways, the way drunk thoughts arrived. Someone could have seen us leaving the bar together. Someone with a camera and a caption already written.LITTLE LION AND TEAM DOC: WHAT'S GOING ON?Cross would know that. Cross would have thought of that before I did, because Cross thought of everything before everyone.
So that was what this was.
Asset management, again, all the way down. He wasn't here because he wanted to be. He was here because he'd calculated the least damaging option and executed it, the same way he calculated everything.
I was leaning against Cross more than I'd registered. Not dramatically, I hadn't gone boneless or dead weight. I was still standing, but my body had decided that Cross was a reliable surface and had adjusted accordingly.
I was too tired to correct it, and he hadn't moved away. I was aware of the warmth of him along my left side in a way that was going to be embarrassing tomorrow.
"Cross."
"Mm."
The question had been sitting in the loose-bolt place all night, probably longer. I was too tired to keep it there. It came out quieter than I meant it to, the words not quite landing in the right order, more like something I was noticing aloud than something I was asking.
"Why do you hate me?"
Cross didn't answer immediately. He never did. I felt his arm shift slightly across my back. Adjusting. Not pulling away.
"I don't hate you," he said.
I thought about that.
"You're very good at it," I said.
"At what?"
"For a guy who doesn't hate me." I could hear how it sounded when I said it out loud. "You're very good at seeming like you do."
Cross didn't say anything. The elevator went ding, and the doors opened onto a hallway that was quiet and dim.
I didn't push off. He didn't remove the arm.
We stood there for a second, in the open elevator.
"Come on," he said, and moved us forward into the hall.
