Felix was beside me in a heartbeat. “Hey,” he murmured. Not scolding. Not startled. Just calm. “It’s okay.”
“I’m sorry,” I blurted. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Clayton.” His hand covered mine. Warm. Steady. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
I nodded quickly, but my eyes were stinging. The coloring book blurred again. “I just…can’t seem to…”
He waited, patient as ever.
“Relax,” I whispered. “I want to. I really want to. But I don’t know how.”
Felix exhaled softly, thumb brushing over my knuckles. “Then we don’t force it. We just start smaller. No rules, no expectations.”
“I’m supposed to be better at this,” I said, trying to laugh and failing. “I used to plan Christmas for a living. I can’t even pick a crayon.”
He smiled, that quiet one that always undid me. “You don’t need to perform for me, sweetheart. You just need to be here.”
The endearment hit deep—tender, unguarded. I wanted to believe it, wanted to sink into it. But the habit of holding myself together was stronger. And I realized I’d been doing it for years.
After a while, Felix turned on the old cartoon channel. We didn’t talk. He sat beside me on the couch, his arm resting behind me but not touching, giving me space.
Half an hour later, the plate was empty, the cocoa gone cold, and I was still sitting too straight, fingers laced tight in my lap.
Felix sighed quietly, then reached over and brushed my hair back from my forehead. “You don’t have to play to belong here, Clayton.”
That undid me more than anything else could have. I leaned against him—not quite Little, not quite grown—justme.And for the first time that morning, I let myself breathe.
Felix
Work wasn’t supposed to intrude on the weekend. That had been the whole point—giving him a break, giving us a break. But by the time I’d cleared the last breakfast plate, my phone was buzzing with a dozen messages from the office. A server issue, an advertiser threatening to pull a campaign—nothing catastrophic, but enough to need my signature, my calm voice, my “it’s handled.”
I looked at Clayton sitting on the couch, curled in my sweater, pretending to read a magazine he’d been staring at upside down for five minutes. His fingers still twitched when he tried to relax.
I didn’t want to leave him alone. Not after this morning.
“Clayton,” I said softly.
He looked up fast, like he’d been caught doing something wrong. “Yes, sir?”
I hated how easily that tone came—the apology built into every word. “I have to run into the office. Something’s come up.”
His face fell a little, then brightened, brave. “Of course. I’ll stay out of the way.”
I shook my head. “No. You’re coming with me.”
He blinked. “Me?”
“Unless you have better plans?”
He smiled, shy and unsure, but he stood. “No, sir.”
The office on a Saturday was quieter than usual. Most of the lights were dim, the echo of our footsteps bouncing off glass and steel. Clayton stayed close, wide-eyed as the elevator doors opened onto the top floor.
I half expected him to retreat the way he had this morning—but he didn’t. He straightened, smoothing the hem of his borrowed coat, and followed me into the bullpen with a kind of cautious dignity that made me want to touch him just to ground him.
“Mr. Reddington!” My assistant, Lucas, stood from his desk. His curly hair was frazzled, and there were dark circles under hiseyes. “Sorry about the mess. Barry’s on duty, and I didn’t have anyone else to—”
Two tiny shapes burst from behind his desk.
