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His hand settles against my upper arm. And for the first time in a week, something inside me unclenches.

“I missed you, Firecracker.”

His voice is quiet. Rough. My throat tightens.

“Me too,” I whisper.

His arm tightens around me.

Not much. Just enough.

For a few minutes, we watch the movie. Or pretend to.

Then Mitchell speaks.

“I read the article you wrote.”

My stomach twists.

I lift my head. He looks down at me.

“I wanted to thank you.”

“You don't have to thank me.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No.”

I sit up a little straighter.

“It was my job, Mitchell. I wasn't protecting you. Or your grandfather.”

“I know.”

“It was the truth.”

“I know that too.”

“Then you don't owe me thanks.”

His jaw tightens.

“You took a chance publishing it after the other story went viral.”

“I published what I could prove.”

“Exactly.” He studies me. “That means something.”

I stare into his impossibly warm ice-blue gaze.

God, those eyes.

They shouldn't be able to look like that. Cold and warm at the same time. Sharp enough to cut through bullshit and soft enough right now to make my chest ache.

“Mitchell.”

His expression changes immediately. Like he hears something in my voice.