Page 81 of False Catch

"I've been—"

"Busy. I know." I lean against the counter, watching her demolish the eggs. "That stops now."

"You can't just—"

"I can and I am." I pour bourbon into two glasses, sliding one toward her. "Drink."

She takes a sip and coughs. "That's strong."

"Good. You need to stop thinking for five minutes."

"I can't stop thinking. The team—"

"Will survive one night without you." I move around the counter, taking the stool next to her. "You know what your problem is?"

"Please, enlighten me."

"You think you have to fix everything yourself. Like if you just find the right words, the right commands, you can make us whole again."

Her jaw tightens. "It's my job."

"Your job is to cox. Not to manage Gray's control issues or Jackson's trauma or Eli's identity crisis."

"Someone has to—"

"No," I cut her off. "Someone doesn't. We're grown men, Reese. We can handle our own shit."

"You're doing a great job of it," she says, but there's no real bite to it.

"Fair point." I refill her glass. "But that's why we're here. Tomorrow, we'll go back and deal with it. Tonight, you're off duty."

She stares at the amber liquid in her glass. "I don't know how to be off duty."

"I'll teach you."

Something in my tone makes her look up. The air between us thickens again, charged with possibilities we've only explored once before, during her heat when biology made the decisions for us.

"That's not why you brought me here," she says, but it's not quite a statement.

"Isn't it?"

I stand, moving into her space but not touching. Not yet. "You need to let go, Reese. Stop carrying the weight of eight Alphas on those tiny shoulders."

"I'm not tiny," she protests automatically.

"You're five-two and maybe a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet. You're tiny." I brush a damp curl back from her face. "And you're exhausted."

The touch breaks something in her. Her face crumples, and suddenly she's crying. Not pretty tears, but the ugly kind that come from holding too much for too long.

I pull her against my chest, and she collapses into me. Her whole body shakes with the force of it, weeks of pressure and fear and responsibility pouring out in great, gulping sobs.

"I've got you," I murmur into her hair. "Let it out."

She cries until she's empty, until her body won't hold her upright anymore. I carry her to the couch, settle her in my lap, and let her hide her face in my neck while the storm passes.

When she finally quiets, she's limp against me, wrung out.

"Better?" I ask.