7. Christian
Christian
I hesitated, feeling the weight of her eyes on me.
"I'm fine," I said, my voice gruff. "It's not a big deal."
She stopped and turned, her eyes soft but insistent. "I know," she said. "But you've already done so much?—"
"That's not why I do these things," I cut in.
"I know," she repeated, more gently this time. "Look, it would just make me feel better if I can make sure it's okay. Will you let me do that?"
I gave her another long look, my mind a battlefield of reasons to refuse. I should say no. I knew this. But there was something about her...
"All right," I finally agreed.
She led the way into her office, the space small but cozy. A soft glow from a desk lamp lit the room, casting shadows that danced on the walls. It smelled faintly of lavender and old books.
"Have a seat," she said, motioning to a chair opposite her desk.
I lowered myself into the chair, feeling its creak beneath my weight. She took her place behind the desk, shuffling some papers before looking up at me with those eyes that seemed to see too much.
"I appreciate you doing this," she began, her voice steady but warm. "I know it's not easy for you."
I shrugged, trying to downplay the discomfort gnawing at me. "Like I said, it's not a big deal."
She leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the desk. "It is to me."
I met her gaze, feeling a strange mix of irritation and something softer that I couldn't quite place. "Why?"
"Because people matter," she replied simply. "And so do you."
The words hung in the air between us, heavy with meaning. For a moment, neither of us spoke.
She opened her bottom drawer and pulled out a first aid kit, her movements deliberate and calm. I watched as she grabbed a pair of tweezers; the metal glinting in the soft light.
"Can I see your hand?" she asked, her voice gentle but firm.
I hesitated for a moment, the instinct to pull away warring with the strange comfort her presence brought. Reluctantly, I extended my hand toward her.
Her fingers wrapped around mine, warm and soft. The contrast was startling against the rough calluses of my own skin. I looked away, unable to meet her eyes. My hands had done things—ruthless things. They'd taken lives without hesitation or regret.
She worked quietly, her touch careful and precise. As she extracted a small splinter from my palm, I couldn't help but marvel at the gentleness in her actions. It felt foreign, almost undeserved.
"You really don't have to do this," I muttered, my voice gruff.
"I want to," she replied simply, not looking up from her task.
Her words hung in the air between us, and for a moment, I felt a strange tightness in my chest. This woman, with her soft hands and kind eyes, had no idea what sort of man I was—what I'd done.
I'd never regretted killing; it was part of the job, part of surviving. But sitting there, with Claire tending to my wounds with such care, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was an imposter in this small town. A wolf among sheep.
"Done," she announced softly, releasing my hand.
I looked down at my palm, now free of the splinter. "Thanks," I said gruffly.
She smiled then, a small but genuine expression that seemed to light up the room. "You're welcome."
I flexed my hand experimentally, feeling the lingering warmth from her touch.
“Oh, wait,” Claire said, reaching into the first aid kit once more. She pulled out a bandaid and carefully wrapped it around my finger, her touch deliberate and gentle. I watched her, transfixed by the way she moved, the concentration in her eyes.
From how close she was, I could count the freckles on her face. Twenty-eight on one side, I thought. And twenty-seven on the other. The realization was oddly comforting, like a small piece of order in an otherwise chaotic world.
She pulled away, a light blush spreading across her cheeks as she threw away the trash. She avoided my gaze for a moment, busying herself with tidying up the first aid kit.
"All done," she said softly, finally looking up at me with a small smile.
"Thanks," I murmured again, unable to take my eyes off her. There was something disarming about her presence, something that made it hard to keep my usual defenses up.
She nodded, still smiling. "You're welcome."
I stood up slowly, flexing my hand one last time before shoving it into my pocket. "I should get going," I said gruffly.
"Of course," she replied, stepping aside to let me pass.
As I made my way to the door, I couldn't shake the feeling of her eyes on my back. It was a sensation that both unsettled and comforted me in equal measure.
Just before stepping out into the lobby, I turned back to glance at her one last time. She was still standing by her desk, watching me with that same soft smile. For a brief moment, our eyes met again.
“Hey,” she said, her voice breaking through my thoughts. “Are you doing anything this evening?”
I blinked, not sure I heard her right. “I’m sorry?”
“Are you busy?”
“I…” My voice trailed off, uncertainty gripping me.
She shuffled some papers on her desk, not meeting my eyes.
“I don’t want to make this weird or anything,” she continued, her words rushed.
“Maybe the fact that I’m already calling it weird is making it weird, but…
” She took a deep breath, as if steadying herself.
“There’s a tree lighting ceremony tonight.
It’s a big thing. The whole town goes. There’s a hot chocolate stand, and…
It’s really beautiful. Did you want to go? ”
I looked at her, trying to read the expression on her face.
Should I say no? Yes, I should say no.
This wasn’t my kind of thing. Christmas wasn’t my thing.
But there was something in her eyes, something hopeful and inviting.
“I don’t know…” I started, feeling the weight of the decision pressing on me.
“You don’t have to,” she quickly added, waving a hand as if to dismiss the idea entirely. “I just thought… you might like it.”
Her face softened, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of vulnerability there. The same vulnerability that had shown when she’d patched up my hand.
Against my better judgment, I felt an unexpected pull to say yes. To be part of something normal for once.
“I’ll think about it,” I found myself saying.
She smiled then, a genuine smile that seemed to light up the room more than any Christmas tree could.
“Great,” she said softly. “I'm going to take my grandmother. We'll probably leave here at six. If you want to come, you can meet us in the lobby.”
I nodded and turned to leave the office, but the warmth of her smile lingered with me as I stepped out into the lobby.
I walked through the lobby, the festive decorations making it feel like a completely different world.
Garlands wrapped around the banisters, their green and gold twinkling in the light.
Mistletoe hung from every possible doorway, a cruel reminder of warmth and connection I didn’t deserve.
Tiny figurines of Santa and reindeer dotted every flat surface, their cheerful faces staring up at me as if mocking my solitude.
The smell of pine and cinnamon filled the air, mingling with the faint scent of hot chocolate from the kitchen down the hall.
I made my way up the stairs to the third-story loft, each step creaking beneath my weight. The bannisters were adorned with more garlands and twinkling lights, casting a warm glow on the walls. It felt like walking through a scene from a holiday movie—one I didn’t belong in.
Reaching my room, I fumbled with the key before finally pushing open the door.
The silence inside greeted me like an old friend.
I closed the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment to catch my breath.
The noise of the world outside was muted now, replaced by a quiet that was both comforting and suffocating.
I looked around my small room—bare walls, a simple bed, a desk cluttered with papers I’d been avoiding. It was stark and empty compared to the festive chaos outside. But it was mine.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, running a hand over my face. Now that I was away from her warmth and kindness, now that I could breathe again without her eyes on me, it all seemed like a bad idea. Letting myself get close to anyone was dangerous—especially someone as good and warm as Claire.
People like her didn’t belong in my world of shadows and bitterness. And I didn’t deserve to intrude into hers.
My hand throbbed slightly where she’d bandaged it, a reminder of her touch—gentle and careful in ways I didn’t think possible anymore.
I clenched my fist, feeling the tension coil back into place like an old habit.
No, going to that tree lighting ceremony would be a mistake. Better to stay here in this room where it was safe—where I couldn’t hurt anyone or be hurt in return.
It was easier this way.
Or so I tried to convince myself as I stared at the blank walls around me.
I needed to get my mind off Claire. The room felt too small, the walls too close. I stood up and pushed the desk aside, clearing a space in the middle of the floor. Bodyweight workouts had always been my go-to when I needed to focus, to regain control.
I started with push-ups. The burn in my arms and chest was immediate, but I welcomed it. The familiar strain of muscles working brought me back to a place where things made sense. Down and up, my breath steady and controlled.
After fifty push-ups, I moved on to squats. My legs felt solid beneath me as I lowered myself down and pushed back up. Each movement was precise, disciplined. I could feel the tension easing from my mind with each repetition.
Fitness had saved my life more times than I could count.
In the SAS, staying in peak condition wasn't just about looking good—it was survival.
A strong body meant a strong mind, and both were necessary in the field.
Even though I'd left that life behind, the routine still brought me a level of comfort.
Next were planks. I held my body rigid, my core tight as I focused on keeping everything aligned. Sweat trickled down my face, but I didn't wipe it away. This was about discipline, concentration.
Minutes passed as I cycled through different exercises—lunges, burpees, sit-ups—each one demanding focus and precision. My muscles burned, but it was a good burn. It reminded me that I was still alive, still capable.
As I worked through my routine, the room seemed to fade away. There were no festive decorations here, no reminders of a world that felt foreign to me. Just the rhythm of my movements and the sound of my breathing.
By the time I finished, my body was spent but my mind felt clearer. The tightness in my chest had eased, replaced by the familiar satisfaction of a good workout. This was something I could control—something that made sense.
I grabbed a towel from the small bathroom and wiped off the sweat, feeling more grounded than before. As I looked at myself in the mirror, my reflection seemed calmer, more composed.
For now, this would have to be enough.
Claire and her invitation could wait until later.
I stepped out of the bathroom and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as I surveyed the room once more. The world outside might be chaotic and confusing, but in here—in this small space—I had found a measure of peace.