Chapter 17- Illusion of Safety
Richard was still in the shower when I made the coffee.
I could hear the water running down the hall while I spooned grounds into the filter, wearing one of his button-downs from yesterday. I didn't even think about that part until I reached for the start button.
Then I realized I'd done it again.
Acted like this was normal.
"Two scoops or three?"
I didn't turn around. I knew he was there. I still knew exactly when Richard walked into a room.
"Three." His voice was rough with sleep. "You're gonna need it."
I added the extra scoop and pressed start. The coffee maker hummed to life between us, familiar and ordinary, but nothing about that morning felt ordinary anymore.
Richard came up behind me. Not touching. Just there. His presence registered like a change in air pressure. Close. Still.
"Morrison meeting at nine," I said.
"You ready?"
"I've been ready since Friday." I watched the coffee drip, black and steady, into the pot. "Charlotte prepped the counter-arguments. I know the case inside out."
"That's not what I asked."
I turned around.
Richard stood there in his boxer shorts, hair still damp from the shower, looking at me like he could see straight through me before I even opened my mouth.
And maybe he did.
That was what scared me.
"I'm ready," I said.
He reached past me for the coffee mugs. His arm brushed mine and lingered for half a second longer than necessary.
"Eggs?" Richard asked.
"You made eggs yesterday."
"I make good eggs."
"You make acceptable eggs. Borderline adequate."
"Watch me," he said, already moving to the fridge.
So I watched him.
The way he cracked eggs one-handed into the bowl. The morning light through the windows caught the edge of his jaw, the line of his shoulders.
I couldn't seem to look away.
Richard plated the eggs—scrambled with cheese and enough pepper to make most people complain. Mine had extra.
They were, objectively, excellent. I said nothing.
We ate at the kitchen island. Richard read case files while I answered emails on my laptop. His foot hooked around my ankle.
"Opposing counsel sent their final revisions last night," I said between bites. "Everything we asked for."
"Good."
"It's a strong position going into the meeting."
Richard looked up from the file. "Blaire."
"What?"
"You're allowed to be nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
He just looked at me.
I set down my fork. "Okay. Maybe a little nervous. But I've done dozens of these presentations. I know what I'm doing."
"I know you do."
There was no qualifier in his voice. No pretending confidence to shore mine up. Just certainty. I stopped.
"Then what?" I asked.
"Nothing." He took another bite of eggs. "Just making sure you know I understand."
The answer should have frustrated me. Should have felt like he was sidestepping me.
But somehow it just felt right.
I finished my eggs. Stood. Started clearing plates.
Richard's hand caught mine. "I've got it."
"You cooked."
"And you have a presentation in two hours. Go shower. I'll clean up."
I should have argued. Should have insisted on maintaining the division of labor, on not letting him do too much, on not getting too comfortable with this.
But I just nodded.
The water ran hot and steady in the shower, and I stood under it longer than I should have. Let the heat work into my shoulders, into the tight space between my ribs where something kept catching.
That morning felt normal.
Too normal.
Like we'd been doing this for years instead of the short time since he moved in.
When I got out, Richard was reading on the couch. I padded through the living room for my coffee, a towel wrapped around me, and he glanced up. Something passed across his face — want, yes, but steadier than that. Like he wasn't surprised to see me there.
I wasn't sure what to do with that.
I stood in my closet trying to decide between the grey suit and the navy suit, both of which said exactly the same thing: competent, professional, in control.
"Grey," Richard called from the bedroom.
"You can't even see me."
"I know you. You're not really deciding between outfits. You're deciding who you need to be when you walk into that room."
I put on the grey suit.
It fit the way it always had. But it didn't feel like armor.
I wasn't sure what to do with that, either.
I found Richard in the living room, already dressed for work, with his messenger bag by the door. Fresh coffee waited in travel mugs on the counter—both black, just like I liked it.
"Ready?" he asked.
I took the mug from his hand. Our fingers brushed.
"Ready."
Richard drove. His hand settled on my knee at the second stoplight, warm and familiar.
And for the first time in weeks, I stopped bracing for something.
I rested my hand over his before I could talk myself out of it.
His thumb moved once against my skin, slow and absentminded, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The office building appeared ahead, glass and steel, exactly the same as it had looked yesterday.
But nothing felt the same.
Richard pulled into the garage, and I didn't tell him he could leave now, that I'd be fine from here.
I just gathered my briefcase and my coffee and let him walk beside me to the elevator.
The lobby was quiet at eight-thirty. Most of the associates wouldn't arrive for another half hour, and the partners were either already at their desks or still at home sending emails in their pajamas.
Richard's hand was on my back as we crossed toward the elevators. Light. Grounding.
The elevator dinged. The doors opened. We stepped inside.
His thumb brushed against my spine as the doors closed behind us.
"You're scared."
I looked at him.
"And you're still walking in there anyway."
The floor numbers climbed.
My phone buzzed in my bag.
I fished it out, expecting Charlotte with last-minute notes or maybe Morrison's assistant confirming the meeting time.
The notification sat at the top of my screen: New Email.
From: Morrison, James Subject: Meeting Agenda Change
The floor numbers kept climbing.
The phone went back into my bag unopened. Whatever it said could wait until I was upstairs. Until I was myself again. Whoever that was now.
The elevator rose. Richard's hand stayed on my back.
Steady. Familiar.
Like it belonged there.
The same way it had in the kitchen. At the counter. Passing each other in the hallway.
Little things.
Nothing things.
The sort of touches most people would never notice.
I noticed.
Because every one of them felt like a promise neither of us was making out loud.
A future hidden inside ordinary moments.
And standing there beside him, feeling the weight of his hand through the thin fabric of my blouse, I realized what scared me.
Not losing him.
Wanting him enough that losing him would matter.