Only her.

Every movement is smooth and purposeful. She glides across the floor with a ballerina-like grace. Her cheeks are rosy while the rest of her face is pale, the exhaustion and reluctance mirroring my own. Brilliant crystalline eyes that are usually challenging and alive are dim, a bright flame snuffed out. I want to howl at the moon for being a source of her discomfort.

Joining me at the table, she silently folds her legs under the wood as she sits, angling her body to the side so our knees don’t collide.

She stays.

She doesn’t flee.

I think she’s giving me a chance.

My shoulders roll back, hopefulness warily making its way into the room.

“Hi,” she says disconsolately, and I offer her a tentative smile.

“Hey. How are you?”

“Tired. I didn’t sleep very well.”

“Oh? Was there something terrifying waiting for you today?” I joke. Her lips quirk up on the right side—the side her slightly crooked smile tends to favor—and her body relaxes marginally at the humor.

“I’m going to be honest, Henry. Up until twenty minutes ago, I went back and forth about coming at all. Even after talking in your office, I wasn’t sure about my decision.”

I anticipated hearing the words. Knew they were coming. It doesn’t alleviate the blow.

A goddamn sucker punch.

“Emma, listen to me. I didn’t know it was you. What do I have to do to prove it to you? Say it—whatever it is—and I’ll do it.”

I’m not sure I’m above begging at this point, dangerously close to dropping to my knees and weeping repentantly at her feet, asking for forgiveness for uncommitted sins.

Her hand reaches out, fingers folding over my forearm, mirroring the way she’s touched me before. Never anything provocative or flirtatious. It’s a comforting gesture. Grounding. One intended to soothe. Dispel fear. Reaffirm hope.

I’m frozen, her touch making me an ice statue. The press of her fingertips has become a part of me, stitched to my person. Even through the barrier of my cashmere sweater, her warmth penetrates the fabric, radiating and traveling to every part of my body. She grips me lightly, the hair on my arm standing up, ready for battle, ready to fight, electricity zapping me like a live wire sparking in a puddle of gasoline.

I melt, pleading for more. It’s an entirely different sensation from the sensual touches I’m accustomed to encountering. It’s not frenzied or hurried, rushing down the length of my body to grope or tease or unbutton. She’s selflessly making sure I’m okay.

She cares.

The realization of those two words barrels into me because holy hell, do I care about her, too.