She was quiet for a while, adjusting one of the corners I’d already fixed. The air between us had softened, stretched thin with the kind of calm that only happened when we both ran out of energy to fight.
Then she exhaled, shoulders dropping a little. “We’re so far behind,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Half the auction items haven’t arrived, the sponsor packets still need printing, and I haven’t even finalized the seating chart.” She gave a small, humorless laugh. “If this gala tanks, I’ll be disappointing everyone — the donors, the kids, the board. All of them.”
I glanced over at her. The light from the overhead fixture caught the curve of her cheek, the faint exhaustion under her eyes. She looked like she’d been carrying this whole place on her back for weeks.
“You won’t,” I said.
She looked up, half-smiling. “That’s optimistic coming from you.”
“It’s not optimism,” I said, tearing another strip of tape. “It’s facts. You don’t quit. It’s annoying.”
That got a real laugh out of her — small and tired, but genuine. It slipped into the room like a spark, quiet but warm.
I caught myself smiling too, though I turned away before she noticed.
We reached for the same roll of tape at the same time, hands brushing. Just a light touch — her fingers cool against mine, soft where mine were rough and calloused.
Neither of us moved right away.
For a second, everything stilled. The hum of the lights, the patter of rain outside, the faint echo of some distant heater — all of it faded into the background.
Then I cleared my throat and took a step back, trying to act like the air hadn’t just shifted. “You should get home,” I said. “It’s late.”
She straightened, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “I could say the same to you.”
“Yeah,” I said, half-grinning, “but I don’t listen.”
Her lips curved, matching my grin with one of her own — softer, knowing.
For a beat, we just stood there, staring at the board we’d pieced together. It wasn’t perfect — the lines were crooked, the corners still a little rough — but it looked better than before. Solid. Whole.
She stepped closer, crossing her arms. “You did good work tonight, Beckett.”
“Don’t sound so shocked,” I said, but there wasn’t any bite behind it.
“I’m not shocked,” she said, glancing at me. “Just… pleasantly surprised.”
I didn’t know what to do with that, so I shrugged, stuffing my hands into my pockets. “Guess there’s a first time for everything.”
Her eyes met mine — steady, unguarded — and for a moment, the whole room felt smaller.
The truth was, I didn’t want to leave. Not yet. There was something about this—about her—that felt different from the noise of the field, the interviews, the endless grind of proving myself.
But I wasn’t about to say that out loud.
We stepped back at the same time, side by side, staring at the board we’d just finished repairing. The thing wasn’t perfect—half the edges were uneven, one corner refused to sit flush, and the tape looked like it had lost a fight—but it was standing again. Solid enough to survive another gala.
Ellery tilted her head, a small, satisfied smile tugging at her lips. “Not bad for a red card.”
I smirked. “Don’t get used to it.”
She shot me a quick look over her shoulder. “What, you helping?”
“Me apologizing,” I said.
That earned a quiet laugh, soft enough I almost missed it. She shook her head, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Duly noted.”
For a second, I didn’t move. Just watched her.
