Page 46 of Dissonance

Mae spins around, hand flying to her chest. “Jesus. You walk like a ghost.”

Lockie doesn’t acknowledge her, eyes on me, searching, taking stock, noting the brace before anything else.

“Sorry,” he says, glancing at my assistant. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

She lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through her hair. “Honestly, you need a bell.”

He almost smiles at that, a simple twitch of his lips as he lifts a coffee holder with two to-go cups, pulling one out and holding it toward her. “Didn’t know what you liked, so I got you an Americano.”

She blinks at it, then at her own cup, then at him. “I mean, I can absolutely drink two.”

He crosses to my desk and sets the second cup down, no faltering or hesitation in his movements when he sees the tests. “Yours is decaf.”

“I already have one,” I say, nodding at the mug.

Mae’s eyebrows lift. “Shit, yeah, but it’s got caffeine, and I know you’ll already have had one this morning, so—”

I glare at her, and she presses her lips together, wisely saying nothing else.

I look at the decaf cup. Because it isn’t just coffee. It’s him already adjusting, already accounting for something I haven’t let myself think about yet. And I don’t know what to do with that—whether it’s him, or the situation, or if any of this would look the same if there was no baby in the middle of it.

Mae clears her throat and backs toward the door. “Oh, shoot. I’ve suddenly remembered I have several extremely important emails that absolutely cannot wait.”

My eyes narrow. “Mae—”

She ignores me, giving Lockie a polite little nod. “Nice to see you.”

“You too.”

Pausing beside me, she squeezes my shoulder, not dramatic or obvious. “Shout if you need me, okay?”

I nod, watching as she leaves, closing the door behind her. Lockie stays where he is, shoulders back, hands loose at his sides, eyes on me.

“Lock—”

“How’s the wrist?”

We speak at the same time, and I stop. He glances at my arm, and I follow his gaze, flexing my fingers carefully, the dull ache climbing up my arm reminding me not to push it.

“Sore,” I tell him honestly.

“Do you want me to take you to get it X-rayed?”

“No, it’s not as bad as yesterday, so I’m going to wait.”

He nods, gaze shifting to the tests on my desk. He doesn’t comment, doesn’t ask why they’re there, just looks back at me.

“How are you?”

I reach for the decaf coffee—more for something to do with my hands than anything else—and take a small sip. Not half bad, I guess.

“Tequila’s off the menu now,” I grumble, which makes the corners of his lips twitch.

“You don’t drink tequila,” he says, and I can hear that almost-smile without having to see it.

“Why are you here, Lockie?”

He shifts, a redistribution of weight, one hand sliding into the pocket of his jeans. “Wanted to see you.”