Page 63 of Cross the Line
"I'll get a towel."
"No." I lunged forward and started scooping the shards together. Clumsy, desperate movements. "I'll fix it. I can fix it."
The pieces clinked as I tried to gather them. They slipped through my fingers. Sharp edges glinting. One particularly jagged shard sliced into my index finger. The pain barely registered.
"Leave it. Carlson, stop."
I didn't stop. I kept gathering the broken pieces with growing desperation. Blood welled from the cut. Bright red droplets fellto mix with the spilled water. The crimson spread through the clear liquid. Turned it pink.
I froze. Stared at my bleeding finger. Such a small wound, really. And yet suddenly everything felt too real.
My shoulders began to shake. I tried to hold it back. To keep some shred of dignity. Too late. Everything I'd been holding together since the transfer gave way at once.
I'd spent weeks trying to prove I wasn't the failure everyone thought I was. Now here I was, bleeding and crying on our apartment floor over a broken glass.
My whole body shook with the force of everything I'd been carrying since the day they'd stripped me of my position at 52. Since the day they'd decided my career, my reputation, my life were acceptable losses to protect their own.
"They're going to do it again, and I can't stop them."
Hawley's presence shifted beside me as he knelt down. His hand brushed against mine, warm, and he gently pried the shards from my grip. The unexpected care made me freeze. My breath caught somewhere between a sob and a gasp.
"You're bleeding."
I couldn't look at him. Couldn't bear to see pity or disgust in the face that always seemed to read me too well. The pieces clinked as he set them aside. His hand came back and turned mine upward to look at the cut.
The gentleness undid me. Something cracked open inside my chest. All the years of pretending. Every smile faked. Every feeling buried. I tried to pull away. Tried to gather the scattered pieces of my dignity. My body refused to cooperate.
Hawley hesitated. A moment of visible uncertainty crossed his usually unreadable face. Then he did something that shocked us both. He reached out. Pulled me against his chest. One hand curled around the back of my neck. The other wrapped around my shoulders.
I stiffened. My whole body went rigid with surprise. This wasn't supposed to happen. I was Ryan Carlson, the charmer, the flirt, the man who always kept his composure. Didn't break down. Didn't need comfort. Didn't need anyone.
"You don't have to pretend with me," Hawley said. Low. The words a rumble against my ear, vibrating through his chest where my cheek pressed.
The permission in those simple words broke something fundamental inside me. The resistance drained from my body all at once. I collapsed against him. Clutched at his shirt as if it were the only solid thing left. The sobs came harder now. Pulled from somewhere deep and raw that years of pretending had tried to erase.
Hawley stayed silent. He just held me. Solid and steady. His breathing slow and even against my shuddering gasps. One hand moved to my spine. A warm weight between my shoulder blades. The other stayed at the nape of my neck, threading through my hair.
I don't know how long we stayed like that. Me falling apart. Him holding the pieces. The tears eventually slowed. My breathing gradually steadied. But I stayed where I was. Suddenly aware of details I'd never noticed before. The steady thump of his heartbeat under my hand. The warmth of his body coming through our clothes. The subtle scent of him. Soap and coffee and something distinctly human.
Slowly, I pulled back. Just enough to look up. Found Hawley watching me with a focus that made my breath catch. No judgment there. No disgust or pity. Just a quiet understanding that felt more intimate than any touch.
"Why are you still here? This isn't your fight."
His hand moved to my cheek. His calloused thumb wiped gently along a tear track. The touch was so unexpected. So unfamiliar. I trembled beneath it without meaning to.
"It became my fight the day they made us partners."
The words landed somewhere I hadn't braced for. A recognition I'd been too afraid to let myself have. I'd never had this. Not from the father who stopped speaking to me when I chose this job. Not from the mother who'd held everything together while she could. Not from the colleagues who'd abandoned me at the first sign of trouble. Not from the women whose beds I'd shared without ever really being in the room.
No one had ever just... stayed. Not when I was falling apart. Not when there was nothing to gain.
Our eyes locked. I saw in his a reflection of my own loneliness. My own fear of connection. How much easier it was to keep people at arm's length than risk the pain of losing them. But underneath that, something else. A warmth I'd never noticed before. Or maybe deliberately ignored.
I leaned forward, hesitant. The movement so small it was barely a movement at all. I gave him every chance to pull away. My heart hammered against my ribs. Loud enough that surely he could hear it. The rational part of my brain told me to stop. To retreat. To laugh it off. But for once, I wasn't listening.
Our mouths were close enough that I could feel his breath on my lips. Warm and uneven, despite the calm he kept on the outside. My pulse hammered so hard I felt dizzy. The apartment fell away. The broken shards forgotten. The reassignment papers scattered across the floor meaningless.
Just him. Just me. Just this fragile space between us.
