Ellery #2
“I want to,” I said finally, my voice softer than I meant it to be.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him nod once, slow and deliberate. He didn’t turn to look at me. “That’s fair,” he said.
The gentleness in his voice shouldn’t have hurt. But it did.
Because he didn’t say I hope he shows up. He didn’t try to reassure me or offer hollow comfort. He just understood. And that understanding—the quiet kind that doesn’t demand words—cut deeper than anything else could have.
I pressed my lips together, focusing too hard on the alphabetized rows in front of me. “He’s just… under a lot of pressure,” I added, mostly to fill the silence. “The scouts are watching him. He can’t afford to miss opportunities.”
Beckett didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was low. “He’s not the only one under pressure.”
My head snapped up before I could stop myself. He was standing by the window now, light slanting across his face, hands in his pockets like he needed somewhere to hide them.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
He gave a small shrug, still not looking at me. “You carry more than anyone I’ve ever met. And I get it—you love what you’re doing. But it’s okay to expect someone to show up for you once in a while.”
I didn’t have an answer to that.
Instead, I watched him finish hanging the last banner, his movements unhurried, precise. The kind of care he gave to everything—even things that weren’t his responsibility.
When he stepped down from the chair, his gaze brushed mine for the briefest moment. It was gone almost instantly, but I felt it all the same—steady, warm, and unbearably kind.
I forced a smile, the kind that was more reflex than real. “Thanks for the help,” I murmured.
He smiled back, small and tired. “Anytime.”
He turned back to what he was doing—hee was trying to hang a sign that was clearly too high for him to reach without risking his life. I watched from my desk, pretending to type while really just waiting for the inevitable moment he gave up.
“Give me the tape,” he said, his voice slightly strained as he stretched on his toes, one arm braced against the wall.
I held up the roll between two fingers. “You mean this tape?”
He looked down at me, one brow arched. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” I said sweetly, “you’re still here.”
His smirk was small but immediate. “For now.”
When he reached for the tape, I lifted it higher, teasing just a little. He reached again, this time closer, his hand brushing against mine. The contact was brief, accidental—but the air shifted, anyway.
For one heartbeat, everything stopped.
The hum of the lights. The tapping of my pulse. The ache in my shoulders.
Just that electric touch, lingering longer than it should have.
I pulled my hand back like I’d been burned, dropping the tape onto the nearest table. “There. Take it,” I said, too quickly.
He caught it, eyes still on me, but didn’t say anything. Just turned and finished taping the banner like nothing happened. When he stepped down from the stool, he dusted his hands off, looked at the sign, and nodded. “Perfect.”
“Congratulations,” I muttered, trying to sound unaffected even though my heart hadn’t figured out how to slow down again.
He glanced at me, head tilted. “You don’t have to pretend, you know.”
“I’m fine,” I said automatically.
“You’re not.” His tone wasn’t harsh—just steady. “You just don’t want anyone to see it.”
The words hit harder than I wanted them to. I turned sharply toward him, defensive before I could think. “Why do you care so much?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Because someone should.”
The silence that followed felt like glass—thin, delicate, one wrong breath away from shattering.
I didn’t know what to do with that answer. With him. With the strange, quiet truth sitting between us.
So I fell back on sarcasm. It was safer.
“You’re impossible,” I said again, shaking my head.
His mouth curved into that crooked grin again. “You like impossible.”
I tried to glare, but it didn’t quite hold. A laugh slipped out—tired, genuine, a little helpless. “Go home, Beckett.”
“Only if you promise to do the same before sunrise.”
“No promises.”
He rolled his eyes, grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair. “You’ll burn out before the big night if you’re not careful.”
I called after him, “Then at least I’ll look productive doing it.”
He paused at the door, shaking his head as he chuckled under his breath. That low sound—half amusement, half something softer—echoed down the hall long after he was gone.
The room felt bigger without him in it, somehow emptier. I looked at the banner he’d fought to hang—straight, centered, perfect—and sank back into my chair.
The exhaustion hit all at once, the kind that wasn’t just physical. The kind that came from holding everything together when no one else saw how close it was to falling apart.
I rubbed a hand over my face, whispering to the empty room, “You’re not supposed to need him.”
But the truth was already settled somewhere deep inside me, quiet and undeniable.
I did.
I did need him.
And there was nothing I could do about it.