I want to apologize for interfering. I want to take it all back and let him fight his own battles, the way he obviously prefers. The very same way he left me to my own war.
But I can’t. Because I meant what I said, and now it’s floating in the air, un-take-back-able.
The worst part is, I don’t actually know myself why I did it. Maybe it was righteous anger. Maybe it was secondhand rage from watching someone get labeled defective just for having a meltdown in a world designed to break people exactly like us. Or maybe it was the selfish hope that if I defended him, someone would do the same for me in another life. I don’t know. But I do know that, for a split second, Noah looked at me like I was a lifeline, and stupid me liked the feeling.
His expression shifts into something raw and unguarded before he masks it again with disdain. But I saw it—that moment of surprise, like no one’s ever told him he’s not broken before.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but his voice lacks its usual bite. Judging by the way he’s looking at me right now, it’s safe to say I’ve caught him off balance, and he doesn’t know how to go about it either.
I step closer to his desk, my heels clicking on the hardwood.
“Don’t I? You think I haven’t seenbrokenbefore?” I lean against the edge, close enough to catch that cedar scent that always makes my pulse skip. “I grew up in a house where broken was currency. Where every flaw was cataloged and weaponized.”
His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t pull away. “That’s different.”
“Is it?” I challenge, dropping my voice to match his intensity. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re doing their,” I throw a thumb over my shoulder, “job for them.Believing you’re some kind of monster who can’t be trusted around people.”
His jaw ticks, those scarred knuckles on the undamaged hand flexing against the desk. “You don’t know what I’m capable of.”
“I know you’re capable of brilliant work,” I say, pointing toward the ruined plans. “I know you care enough about this project to work yourself—and me,” I add with a chuckle, “into the ground. And I know you didn’t hurt me when you easily could have. So, I don’t think you are actually dangerous. Maybe a little fucked up in here.” I tap my temple with my finger. “But aren’t we all?”
His expression changes from surprise to something one might call relief—but it’s gone so fast I almost miss it.
“The plans,” he says abruptly, trying to redirect us away from understanding what just happened. “I need them redrawn by tomorrow morning, or the board wins. And all of that,” he gestures somewhere behind my back, “was for nothing.”
I straighten, slipping back into assistant mode even though my heart’s still racing. “Then we better get started.”
“We?” Noah looks at me like I’ve suggested we try to fly to the moon. “You don’t know the first thing about architectural drawings.”
“I don’t need to,” I reply, crossing my arms. “You draw, I prep. I can handle the zoning board materials while you focus on recreating what was lost. I’ll supply your coffee.”
He studies me for a long moment. “Why would you help me after I’ve been such an ass to you?”
It’s a fair question. Weeks of coffee runs, impossible demands, and general dickishness should have me running for the door, not offering to stay late. But seeing him with his walls down changed something in me. And the last week changed something inus.
“Because unlike some people,” I say pointedly with a crooked smile, “I’m actually good at my job.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his face before he bothers to hide it. “And this is just about the job?”
“What else would it be about?” I challenge, hoping my face doesn’t betray how my heart rate picks up when he looks at me with such open hope.
He doesn’t answer, just holds my gaze a beat too long before looking away. “Fine. Get me a fresh drawing pad from the supply closet. And I’ll take you up on that coffee offer.”
“Yes, sir,” I reply, putting just enough sass in the word to make his jaw tick as usual.
As I turn to leave, he calls after me. “Bea?”
I pause, hand on the door. “Yeah?”
“Thanks.” The word comes out as if he’s in pain, as if it costs him his soul to say it.
I nod and slip out of the office while my heart does this weird fluttery thing that I absolutely refuse to analyze. The supply closet is down the hall in Ezra’s wing, past Martin’s desk where he’s pretending to work but obviously eavesdropping on everything that just happened.
“That was quite a show,” he says without looking up from his computer screen.
“Just doing my job,” I reply, grabbing a legal pad and some mechanical pencils.
“Uh-huh.” His fingers pause over the keyboard. “And defending your boss from his own brother? Throwing yourself in front of Ezra? That part of the job description too?”
