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I turn my head to look at him again. “You’ve been obsessing about this case for years.”

“Mm.”

“And you’re just walking away from something that could change everything.”

“For today,” he says. “Yes.”

The hotel is exactly what I expect it to be.

Generic. Clean in a way that feels surface-level. A place designed for people passing through.

He pulls into the lot and parks close to the entrance, already reaching for his phone before the engine fully cuts.

“I’ll be two minutes,” he says.

“I can come in,” I reply automatically.

“No.”

“I’m not incapable of walking.”

“You nearly fell over ten minutes ago.”

“That was⁠—”

“Ten minutes ago,” he repeats.

I exhale, leaning my head back against the seat again. The world still feels slightly tilted, like it hasn’t quite decided on a stable position yet.

“Stay,” he adds, already opening the door.

I don’t argue this time.

I watch him through the windshield instead. The way he moves—quick, efficient, already halfway through whatever conversation he’s about to have before he even reaches the desk.

It doesn’t take long.

He’s back before I can decide whether sitting still is making things better or worse.

“Come on,” he says, opening my door.

“I can⁠—”

“I know.”

He stays close, not touching me unless I actually need it.

Which I don’t.

Technically.

We make it inside. Fluorescent lighting. Neutral carpeting. The faint smell of cleaning solution that doesn’t quite mask whatever came before it.

I try really hard not to think about it.

The room door opens. Standard layout. Bed, desk, muted artwork bolted to the walls.

For a second, I just stand there.