"What's the plan now that you're better?" he asks, his voice cutting through with each curl he does.
I shrug. "Callum told me to continue my foundation work while they gather more intel, so I'll do that. I have an idea, so we'll see."
He nods. "What you're good at," he says, finishing a rep and setting the weights down.
I roll my eyes. "Someone thinks only I can do it well, so let's test that theory."
He smirks and then walks toward me.
I keep my eyes on the screen, even though I can feel the heat of his body radiating toward me. Even with me on the treadmill, elevated slightly, he towers over me. His shadow falls across the machine.
"Hey," he says, his voice dark and soft. "I just wanted you to know that I don't just think of you as a job. I know you're a person."
I nearly trip.
My hand shoots out to grab the handlebar to steady myself, and I look up at him. "Oh," I say, stunned. "Well, thank you. I don't really think you're an asshole. I mean, maybe a little." I smile before I can stop myself.
He actually smiles back.
Smiles.
My stomach does a backflip.
I've never seen him smile.
I didn't know he could.
My eyes drop, because I have to, and that's when I notice a tattoo on his upper left arm. A boy's face. Young. Maybe teenage. It's different from the others, more realistic, more detailed.
"Who's that?" I ask, nodding to the tattoo.
Octavian stiffens, and his demeanor changes.
His jaw tightens, and the warmth in his expression vanishes. "My brother," he says, his voice flat.
I glance at the tattoo again, at the boy's face. "He's much younger than you?"
"Yes." He shakes his head, his gaze dropping to the floor. "He was," he says, clearing his throat. "He died."
The air leaves my lungs, and my eyes widen in shock and embarrassment.
"Oh," I say, my hand trembling. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."
"You didn't know." He wipes his face again and turns away, and I can see the tension in his shoulders. "Anyway, I'll let you get your workout in. Just don't sneak out, ok? Please just tell me if you need to go somewhere, and I'll take you."
I nod, my throat tight.
He turns to leave, his broad back covered in more ink, and I watch him go, my chest aching for reasons I don't fully understand.
He stops at the door.
"Uh, C9," he says, looking back. "That's the place that has your favorite coffee, right?"
I blink. "Yeah."
He nods.
"I had it delivered. It's in the kitchen when you want some."
