I almost laugh, but it doesn’t quite make it out.
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
The words come out lower this time, and something in Nolan’s expression tightens.
“This is a job,” he says. “A project. Something she came here to do.”
“She is doing it.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
Silence stretches for a beat, then another. Long enough for me to notice the way Lark’s fingers curl slightly against the edge of the table, the way her weight shifts just enough that I know she’s preparing for something. Long enough for me to realize this didn’t start when I walked in. This has been building.
Nolan runs a hand through his hair.
“The point is she doesn’t stay,” he says finally. “She doesn’t get pulled into things that complicate the work.”
Pulled. As if she’s not been given a choice.
“She’s not being pulled into anything,” I say.
Nolan’s gaze cuts to mine.
“Then what would you call it?”
I don’t hesitate.
“Her choice.”
The silence that follows is different because that’s the part he doesn’t get to control.
Nolan’s mouth presses into a thin line.
“You think this is about choice?” he says.
“I know it is.”
“No,” he says. “You think this is about you.”
I take another step forward. Close enough now that there’s no space left to pretend we’re not standing in the middle of something that’s already tipped too far.
“This has nothing to do with me,” I say.
“That’s not what it looks like.”
“That’s your problem.”
The words come out harsher than I intend. Nolan’s gaze doesn’t move.
“You’re getting in the way,” he says.
There it is, his fear bubbling to the surface. My jaw tightens. I know he’s coming from a good place, but sometimes he’s protectiveness feels overbearing.
“Of what?”
“Of what she came here to do.”
