I sit up in his loftand pull on his flannel over my t-shirt.Climbingdown the ladder in his oversized wool socks, I find Sullivansittingatthekitchen tablewith a glass of water and a faceI’veseen on him before.
It’sthe same expression he wore on the porch step, the day after the hawk.
The face of a man who has been arguing with himself in the dark.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.”
“You’re up early.”
“I didn’t sleep much.”
I put the kettle on and turn to look at him.“You know what’s funny?”
He arches an eyebrow.
“Seventy-two hours ago, I knew exactly what wasgoingto happen in your head.”
“Tess.”
“And you, Sullivan Mercer, proved me right.”
“Tess.”
“At four a.m. By yourself. In the dark. With a glass of water.”Ihold his gaze. “Choosingnot to wake thewoman lying next to you. Choosingto be alone.”
Hedoesn’tsmile.“I need to say something to you,and I need you to listen.”
Isitdown across from him.“All right.”My voice is even. My hands are not. I press them flat on the table.“I’m listening.”
“I wasscared yesterday.”His voice is rough.“Not because of what he did. Because of what Ialmost did.”
“Sullivan—”
“Hold on. Let me say it. I broke that man’s wrist in my head before I even got close to him. I had a plan. I—”He looks athis hands like hedoesn’trecognize them.“Do you understand whatI’msaying?For nine years, they taught me to take a man apart, and that trainingdidn'tleave me when I came home. Ihaven’thad to hold it back in two years. Yesterday,I barely managed to restrain it.And the only reason I did is because you said my name.”
“Sullivan.”
“What ifyou’renottherenext time?What ifit’sthe kid at the gas station and the wrong word and somebody who reminds me?—”
“Sullivan Mercer.”
He stops.
I lean across the tableandtake his hands—hisvery coldhands.“Listen to me.I’mgoing to say this once. Are you with me?”
He blows out a shaky breath.“I’m with you.”
“You did not hurt that man. You held his wrist with controlwhile telling him to take his handoffme. I was there. I felt how steady you were.You are not a man who is losing control of himself. You are a man whohas convincedhimselfthathe might.Yourcall signwasn’tan accident.You’renot a weapon, Sullivan.You’rea protector.”
He doesn’t answer.
“You said you haven’t had to hold it back for two years. That’s not bad luck, Sullivan. That’s a man who’s done a lot of work on himself.”
His throat bobs as he swallows.“Tess?—”
“I’m not done.”
