Page 23 of Duty Compromised
I crossed the lab toward her, exaggerating each step like I was auditioning for Riverdance. Subtlety wasn’t my strong suit, but startling her? Even worse idea. She finally registered my approach, and something flickered behind the exhaustion in her eyes.
Her hand shot up like she was calling time-out. “Don’t. Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. I don’t have time for security theater right now.”
Force-protection checklist died on my tongue. Fine. Start simpler. “When was the last time you ate?”
Her brow furrowed, irritation folding into confusion. “I… What?”
I dragged a chair over, dropping into it until we were eye level. “Food. Actual food. When’s the last time?”
“That’s not— I don’t—” Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, frozen. “I’m busy.”
“You’re exhausted.” I kept my tone easy, like we were discussing the weather, not the fact that she looked ready to collapse. “You’ve been here all night, haven’t you?”
Her shoulders squared, like defiance could replace energy. “I’m fine.”
“You’ve got coffee stains on your shirt. Three of them.”
She exploded. “I always have coffee on my shirt! Every damned day!”
Her voice cracked through the room, dragging every head our way. She realized it a beat too late, color rushing up her neck.
“Hey.” I dropped my voice low, steady. “It’s okay.”
“Nothing is okay!” She spoke even louder. The room hushed, dozens of eyes pinning her in place. She shook, breath going shallow, quick.
I tried again, calm. “All right. That’s fair. But we’ll get you what you need?—”
Her trembling hand shot for her mug, clipped it wrong, and the thing went flying. It slammed onto the desk, splattering coffee in a wild arc—across papers, monitors, her sleeve. I grabbed it before the rest could cascade, but the damage was done.
She froze, staring at the spreading stain like it was acid eating through everything she’d built. Her breathing hitched, shallow and ragged.
Her shoulders drew tight, hands flexing uselessly at her sides, chest heaving faster and faster as her gaze skittered around the room. A trapped animal, every exit mapped but none close enough.
“I need to—” Her chair crashed backward as she lurched to her feet. “I can’t—I can’t?—”
Oh fuck. The brilliant Dr. Charlotte Gifford was seconds away from melting down in front of her entire team because every set of eyes in the lab had locked on her. Time to belly flop onto the grenade.
“Hey.” I raised my voice, easy and loud enough to cut through the silence. “Quick reminder—you are the same Dr. Gifford I asked to fetch me coffee last week because I thought you were the receptionist. So, clearly, the village idiot position around here is already filled.”
A ripple of laughter cracked the tension. Eyes swung my way, right where I wanted them—on the oversized moron who couldn’t tell a quantum engineer from a receptionist.
Charlotte’s shoulders eased a fraction, like maybe she could breathe again, though every line of her body still screamed run.
I leaned in just enough for my fingers to graze her elbow, as gentle as possible. “Come on. Let’s get some air.”
She let me guide her out, tremors running through her arm. The stairs seemed safer than the elevator—fewer chances for encounters. The rooftop garden waited above.
Morning air bit with autumn’s first attempts at dominance. She collapsed onto a bench, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Distance seemed wise, so I claimed a spot against the railing.
“I hate that.” The words came out small, defeated. “Being watched. Being the center of attention. I’m good at the work, not…not the people part.”
“You don’t have to be good at everything.”
Her laugh turned bitter. “Tell that to everyone who expects me to be some kind of genius robot. Perfect code, perfect presentations, perfect everything.”
“Perfect’s overrated.”
Her gaze found mine, studying. “You don’t get it. You’re…” A vague gesture encompassed all of me. “You walk into a room, and people just…respond. You make jokes and they laugh. You’ve probably never said the wrong thing at the wrong time and had everyone stare like you’d grown a second head.”
