Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
AUDRA
I wake before my alarm.
Not abruptly. Not with panic.
Just… aware.
I don’t move right away. The sheets are warm, the room quiet in that early-hour way that makes everything feel slightly unreal. My body registers first—weight, heat, the faint echo of sensation that hasn’t decided yet whether it belongs to memory or to now.
My stomach tightens.
Not nerves.
Not hunger.
Recognition.
Last night surfaces without effort.
Not the obvious parts. Not heat or release or the mechanics of it. What stays with me is the moment before—the almost.
Standing beside the car, keys cool in my palm, the streetlight catching on the windshield just enough to make everything feel suspended. The way Derek watched me. Not touching. Not rushing.
Waiting.
For me.
I remember the precise instant I realized I could stop thinking. Could lean. Could let him hold the line for once without losing myself in it.
The realization was… startling.
I’ve spent my life measuring distance. Calculating exits. Keeping myself just this side of contained. Surrender has never been part of the equation—not because I don’t want it, but because wanting it has always felt unsafe.
Last night, it hadn’t.
That’s what unsettles me.
Not the act.
The permission.
I find the handkerchief later, when I’m changing.
Crumpled.. Left where I’d see it without it being a production.
It’s just a handkerchief. Linen. Soft. Practical in a way most gestures aren’t.
I don't know why I even kept it.
For God's sake it's got his come on it.
It's like some sort of weird symbolism I don't understand.
By the time I shower, dress, pin my hair back with practiced precision, I’m myself again—composed, competent, intact. Whatever almost happened last night doesn’t get to rearrange me without consent.
Work helps.
The building hums the way it always does. Familiar. Grounding. I settle at my desk, open my inbox, let routine do its work.
I’m already seated when my phone lights up.
Derek Pierce:
Do you have five minutes this morning? I can come down.
My breath stutters—just once.
I read it again.
I can come down.
Not an expectation.
Not a summons.
I turn the phone face-down and press my palm flat against my abdomen as warmth blooms there, slow and uninvited. Butterflies—soft, unmistakable. Annoying. Comforting.
Last night presses forward without permission.
The drive back to my place.
The way the city noise faded when the car door closed.
The quiet—not awkward, not rushed. Just held.
The way he watched me, like he was making a choice instead of following momentum.
My fingers curl slightly against my stomach.
I exhale and flip the phone back over.
Audra: Yes. I’m here.
I set it down again and ground myself with the edge of my desk. This is work. This is my floor. My space. Whatever almost happened last night doesn’t make me smaller here.
Still, when the elevator chimes a few minutes later, my body responds like it recognizes the sound.
I finish the sentence I’m typing. Save the document. Then turn.
Derek steps onto the floor and walks directly toward me.
No hesitation.
No scanning.
“Good morning,” he says.
“Good morning.”
He stops a respectful distance from my desk—close enough to speak quietly, far enough not to claim space that isn’t his.
“How are you feeling today?”
I consider the question carefully.
Not the safest answer.
The truest one.
“Steady,” I say. “Clear.”
A small nod. Acceptance without correction.
“I’m glad.”
I notice what he doesn’t do.
He doesn’t reference last night.
Doesn’t frame it as something fragile or precarious.
That matters.