His fingers gripped the fabric of his shorts, tight around the oblong spot of blood.

They gave him a pat on the shoulder as they broke from the hug.

“Good work tonight,” Furcate said.

Then they were gone.

He didn’t let go of fabric, find another pen, or even think about much as he sat there, trying to summon up the strength to—to what? Go to sleep?

“Byron?”

His feelings leapt into another paradigm, where they shuffled around in confusion. He twisted around to look.

Brianna, at his bedroom door. She was wearing clothes, not nightwear.

“Want to get some fresh air?” she asked.

He nodded. “I need to change.”

“I’ll be waiting by the front door, then.”

She shut his door as she left.

He released the fabric that he’d clutched in his hand for long enough that the blood had stuck to his palm. A bandage covered it, and from there, he was quick to get his clothes on, fixing his hair with his fingers.

Fresh air was… very much what he needed, when being where he was felt so suffocating.

Jacket on, boots on, and… yeah.

They left through the front door, and then they walked. It was late enough that there could be trouble, a good hour for muggers. Silly to think about, when they were as capable as they were.

“Kay sent you?” he asked.

“Kay?”

“They stopped in for a minute.”

“I think Furcate checked on everyone.”

“Oh.”

At the center of the little park was a fountain, and around the fountain were stairs in concentric circles. Brianna sat on one stair. He sat down on the step her feet rested on, his shoulder near her knees.

She slipped down one step, so she sat down beside him.

“I want to talk to you, not the back of your head.”

He smiled. “Alright.”

“Thank you for agreeing to come for this walk. If you’re half as tired as I am, you must be dead on your feet.”

“Too tired to sleep.”

“Yes,” she said. She smiled, red lipstick parting to show white teeth with the bar of a retainer across them. He felt that emotional jumble again. “Yes, exactly.”

“I can’t promise I’ll be a very good conversation partner.”

“No,” she said. “Me either, probably. When I joined the team, Mr. Vaughn was on about how I was the daughter of a politician, I should be very good at the speech and the presentation—”

“You are.”

“Yes, but there’s pressure! And even now, there’s pressure, you know. I invited you and now I’m obligated to not make you regret it.”

“We could sit here for two hours, keeping each other company without saying a word, and I wouldn’t mind,” he said.

Words he immediately regretted. Words he wouldn’t have said if he weren’t as tired, as emotionally raw.

“Good to know.”

Her shoulder touched his as she leaned a little closer. She turned to look the other direction, and her hair brushed his ear.