The question landed heavier than it should have. I felt Beckett’s attention shift immediately, his reflection flicking toward mine in the mirror.
I forced a smile — too quick, too practiced. “He’s been busy with training,” I said. “The timing didn’t work out, that’s all.”
Mr. Han nodded politely, though I caught the faint crease between his brows before he murmured something about fetching a new coat for Beckett and slipped into the back room.
The door closed, leaving the two of us alone in the quiet.
Beckett’s reflection lingered in the mirror, still watching me. Not directly — just enough to notice.
I pretended to scroll through my notes on the tablet, the silence pressing in like static. Then, before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “Kyle’s been running himself ragged. I just wish he’d slow down — just once.”
My voice came out smaller than I meant it to.
Beckett didn’t move, but his eyes lifted toward my reflection. His voice was quiet when he finally spoke — even, but grounded in something I couldn’t name. “That’s not who he is.”
I swallowed, the words finding their mark faster than I expected. “Yeah,” I said softly. “I know.” I hesitated, then added, barely above a whisper, “Sometimes I wish he could be.”
Beckett turned fully — not just a glance in the mirror this time, but facing me head-on. The shift was subtle, but it changed everything.
“You deserve someone who makes time,” he said.
It wasn’t sharp or bitter. It wasn’t an accusation. Just truth — plain and simple.
And that, somehow, hurt more.
The air went still, charged with something fragile. My pulse tripped over itself. I realized my hand was still resting on the edge of his collar, fingertips brushing the fabric just above his chest. Too close. Too much.
I stepped back quickly, pretending to adjust the clipboard clutched in my other hand. “Thanks,” I managed, clearing my throat. “That looks… fine.”
Beckett’s mouth quirked. “Just fine?”
I met his eyes, forcing a quiet laugh. “You’ll do.”
He huffed a small laugh of his own — but it sounded different. Strained, almost. Like he didn’t quite know how to move on from what had just passed between us.
Neither did I.
Mr. Han reappeared a moment later with a garment bag, the sound of hangers clinking breaking the silence. I latched onto it like oxygen.
Beckett straightened his shoulders, slipping the easy, detached version of himself back into place. I did the same, burying the unease behind polite smiles and shallow breaths.
“Everything looks perfect,” Mr. Han said cheerfully, patting the lapel of Beckett’s jacket. “You wear it well, Mr. Mason.”
I forced a breath, the kind that passed for laughter. “He’d look better if he stopped slouching.”
Beckett shot me a sidelong look, that familiar half-smirk tugging at his mouth. “That your professional opinion?”
“My professional opinion,” I said, straightening the clipboard I didn’t need to be holding, “is that you’re untrainable.”
He tilted his head, eyes glinting under the warm shop lights. “You love a challenge.”
Mr. Han chuckled at that, clearly delighted by the exchange. I tried to match his amusement, even though my heart was still thudding in the quiet space between us.
The air smelled faintly of cedar and starch, the same scent that had been clinging to his suit when I’d fixed his tie. Only now, it carried a weight — like every word we didn’t say was suspended between the threads.
Beckett moved to the mirror again, adjusting his jacket. He looked perfectly composed, a far cry from the man who’d just told me I deserved someone who made time. And I… I looked like a woman pretending she hadn’t just heard it.
Mr. Han asked something about tailoring the hem, but his words barely registered. Beckett answered for himself, low and casual, and I caught the trace of humor still lingering in his voice — armor slipping back into place.
