No hesitation. My legs swing off the table, boots hitting the floor harder than necessary, and the motion pulls at my arm. The pressure under the stitches tightens, deep and uncomfortable, and I breathe through it, jaw set.
Mel is there before I finish settling, her hand hovering near my elbow, close enough to catch me. “Careful.”
“I’m fine.”
It comes out rough.
Her fingers brush the sleeve of my shirt as she pulls back, light and brief, but I feel it anyway. It lands against skin that’s already too aware and is gone before I can react to it.
Tom doesn’t step away.
He shifts in instead.
The heat of him settles at my back again, closer now, the space between us gone in a way that leaves nowhere else to put my attention. I feel the line of him without turning, without looking, my body already adjusting around it.
“Stay.”
My shoulders lock, breath catching again before I can push it down, and I hold where I am, caught between the pull to step away and the weight that keeps me there.
I glance at him. I hadn’t realized I was about to move.
He’s watching me.
Waiting.
There’s no challenge in it. No push, no force.
Just expectation, steady and unyielding.
Something tightens low in my stomach, sharp and unfamiliar.
I break eye contact first and drop into the chair beside the table, leaning back like it’s my decision, like I’m not reacting to him at all.
My arm settles awkwardly in the sling, the fabric pulling across my shoulder, restricting more than helping. The dull pressure under the stitches pulses once, then fades into something manageable.
“Happy?” I mutter.
Tom’s mouth shifts, not quite a smile but close enough to feel like one. “Getting there.”
Mel lets out a quiet breath that might be a huff, might be a laugh, and when I look at her, her gaze flicks between us before she turns away too quickly, like she caught something she doesn’t want to name yet.
She reaches for a file. “I still have paperwork. Half an hour.”
“I’ll take him home.”
Tom doesn’t ask.
I look at him again, irritation rising on instinct. I can drive. It’s one arm and just the left. I’m not?—
“I can?—”
“No.”
He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t step closer.
He doesn’t need to.
The word settles between us, calm and absolute, and my jaw tightens against it.
