“That’s your evidence?”
“That’s my opening statement.” Bricks takes a drink, then points the bottle toward the hallway Saint disappeared down. “The man has been walking around this place like somebody handed him a bomb with feelings. He doesn’t know whether to hold it, apologize to it, or kill everyone else in the room for making it tick.”
Despite myself, my mouth curves into a smile. “That’s an awful way to describe it but he’s trying.”
“Yeah,” Bricks says, quieter now. “That’s the part that matters.”
I look at Bricks, noticing he isn’t smiling as much anymore. There’s still humor at the edges of him because I’m not sure he knows how to stand anywhere without it, but something steadier sits under it. He watches the hallway for a moment before looking back at me. “He’s got something to lose now,” he says. “About time somebody made him act like he knows it.”
“He scares me sometimes,” I say.
Bricks doesn’t pretend not to understand. “Good.” My brows furrow with confusion as he continues. “He should,” Bricks says, leaning back. “Saint scares everybody with sense. Difference is, he’s starting to scare himself too, and that might be the first useful thing fear’s ever done for him.”
Before I can answer, Saint comes back through the doorway with the file still in his hand and his attention already on me. His gaze moves from my face to the hand pressed against my ribs, then to Bricks, then to the beer on the table. He’s close enough to have heard at least some of it.
Bricks lifts the bottle. “We’re talking about you.”
“I gathered.”
“You going to deny it?”
Saint looks at him for a long second. Then his eyes shift to me, and whatever he sees there makes his face settle into something quiet and unreadable. “No.”
Bricks’ eyebrows rise with obvious delight. “Well, fuck me.Progress.”
Saint ignores him and steps closer to my chair. “You’re done for the night.”
“I’m not a meeting. You can't just tell me I'm done.”
“No,” he says, glancing at the way I’m sitting too carefully. “You’re worse. You argue.”
“I need to get to bed.”
“I’ll get Tally.”
I catch his wrist before he can turn, Saint halting immediately. Everything in the clubroom goes quiet again, Bricks suddenly finding the label on his beer fascinating. Saint looks down at my hand around his wrist like he’s already bracing himself for what I’m about to ask.
“I was talking to you, Saint.” I tilt my head to the side, immensely enjoying the shock on his face. “I’m tired, Saint. I hurt. And I’m asking you to help me to bed.”
Saint just stares at me for several seconds before setting the file on the table, turning his wrist until my hand slides into his, and stepping close enough for me to use him.
“All right,” he says, voice rough. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
“You’ll know.”
His mouth tightens, but he doesn’t argue. He slides one arm behind my back and waits until I shift my weight into him before helping me stand. It hurts anyway. My ribs protest, my stitches pull, and for one second the room dips at the edges.
“I’ve got you, Sín,” he whispers.
Bricks doesn’t say anything as we pass him, which might be the first true act of mercy I’ve seen from him.
The walk down the hall takes longer than it should. Saint moves at my pace, even when impatience pulls at his body. Every few steps, his fingers flex against my side like he wants to lift me and be done with the slow, painful process of letting me manage my own feet. Instead, he lets me lean on him.
Saint helps me sit first, then crouches to pull off my shoes with the same careful focus he gave the dishes, only this doesn’t make me want to laugh.
“You don’t have to do all that,” I tease. “I just didn’t want to be sitting up anymore."
He looks up from where he’s loosening the second shoe. “I know.”
