What strikes me isn’t her words but her demeanor. She’s not backing away. Not flinching. Not looking at me like I’m some kind of monster who just demolished half his office in a fit of rage and needs to be sent for evaluation. Instead, she steps forward, setting her pink coat on the chair by the door.
I stare at her, bewildered. “Why aren’t you running?” I ask, my voice rougher from the sudden wave of embarrassment.
She meets my eyes directly. “Should I be?”
“Most people would,” I mutter, suddenly aware of all the destruction I caused. The overturned chair. The shattered picture frame. The pens and paper everywhere. My bleeding hand. What the hell was I thinking? “I just destroyed my office.”
“I see that. But I’ve also seen worse,” she says with a casual shrug, moving toward me. “My mother once threw our whole collection of Ming dynasty vases once because the florist brought lilies instead of orchids.” She crosses my office like she’s navigating a familiar obstacle course, stepping over the scattered debris with surprising grace. “Did I mention that she was aiming at the florist’s head?”
I stare at her, completely bewildered. She doesn’t look scared at all. In fact, she looks almost comfortable, like my rage-fueled destruction is just a minor inconvenience rather than a glimpse into the darkness I fight to keep contained.
“It’s past seven. Why are you still here?”
“I forgot my phone charger,” she says, nodding toward her desk visible through the open door. Then she adds with unexpected softness, “And now I’m staying because you’re bleeding.”
Heat crawls up my neck. Shame. That’s what this feeling is—pure, burning shame. I haven’t felt it this intensely since I couldn’t protect my mother from my father’s hateful words.
My chest tightens with a strange ache. She’s looking at me—really looking—without a trace of fear in her eyes. The office lies in ruins around us, my knuckles are bleeding, and yet she stands there calmly as if this was any ordinary Monday. Something cracks open inside me, a door I’ve kept locked for so long I’d forgotten it existed.
“You should go,” I mutter, trying to sound commanding but failing miserably. “I’ll clean this up.”
Please, don’t go.
Instead of listening—or maybe she really heard—Bea moves toward my private bathroom and runs the water. Then she returns with a damp towel and my first aid kit.
“Give me your hand,” she says, not a question but not quite a command either.
“I don’t need?—”
“Your hand, Noah.” She wiggles her fingers.
Something in her tone—firm but gentle—makes me comply. I extend my bleeding knuckles, feeling ridiculous and childish. She holds my hand with a surprising gentleness, her fingers feel cool against my heated skin.
“Men and their tables,” she murmurs, dabbing at the blood with the damp cloth. “An epic battle that never ends well for either party.”
I wince as the cloth touches the raw split in my skin. “The table started it.”
Her lips twitch, almost smiling as she carefully cleans away the blood. “I’m sure it did. Tables can be very provocative.”
Despite everything—the ruined blueprint, my throbbing hand, the shambles of my office—I feel a laugh building in my chest. It comes out as a rough chuckle that sounds foreign to my own ears.
“This isn’t your job,” I say as she opens the first aid kit, taking out antiseptic wipes and bandages.
She glances up, meeting my eyes as her fingers work with precise, gentle movements. “Maybe not. But you need help, and I’m here.”
The simple statement feels oddly intimate in the chaos of my destroyed office. I watch her hands as she carefully tears open an antiseptic wipe.
“This will sting,” she warns before pressing it against my split knuckles.
I hiss through my teeth but don’t pull away. “I’ve had worse.”
“I can tell,” she says quietly, her eyes flitting to the older scars crisscrossing my knuckles. Her touch is featherlight as she traces one particularly jagged line. “How many tables have you fought and lost to?”
“Too many to count,” I admit. The confession makes me feel raw and exposed. “But I don’t lose all the time,” I add with a dark chuckle.
“You must have quite the collection of scars,” she says gently as she applies an antibiotic ointment to the open wound. Her touch is careful, clinical almost, but there’s something in the way her fingertips linger that makes my skin warm beneath her hands.
“Occupational hazard,” I mutter, watching her face as she works. The office lights catch in her hair, sparkling as though in the sun, but now it has a different undertone. I’ve noticed the light does it often—gets tangled in her hair—probably drawn by her personality, and I suddenly imagine this color all over my office. Cold and dark tones suddenly feel too empty, and I want to bask my space in warmth.
