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She lifted her eyes. Red-rimmed. Exhausted. Something underneath both that he had no idea how to fix.

“Arlo’s up working tonight,” she said. “We can’t go near the computer room.”

“No. Hopefully tomorrow night.”

She sat down on the bed. He stayed against the door. Six feet between them. An hour ago, she’d been in his lap with her face in his neck, and now he couldn’t close the distance because he didn’t know if she wanted him anywhere near her.

“I’m so tired.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “That’s stupid, right? I didn’t do anything all night except lie on a floor and sit in your lap, and I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”

“That’s because your brain was working the entire time.”

“No, it wasn’t. I wasn’t spiraling. The submission stuff helped with that, at least.”

That should make him feel a little better, but it didn’t. Not when she was sitting there looking so small and worn down.

“I mean that your brain was in a constant state of fight-or-flight. You were surrounded by a room full of men you couldn’t trust.” Him included. “You were vulnerable and humiliated and had adrenaline coursing through your system with nowhere to go.”

And it was his fucking fault.

She was quiet for a while. Arms still wrapped around herself. He stayed where he was. Pushing right now would be wrong. He’d done enough wrong tonight.

“Ryder.” Her voice was small.

“Yeah.”

“Will you hold me?”

It took a moment for the words to register. He’d been expecting her to tell him to get the fuck out or stay on his side of the room. Either would’ve been understandable.

She was asking him to hold her.

He wasn’t sure if she wanted him, specifically, or just anybody to give her comfort. But he wasn’t about to make her ask him twice.

He crossed the room, sat down beside her, and pulled her against his chest. She came without resistance. Her face went to his shoulder this time, not his neck. Her hand pressed flat against his chest, palm down, like she was checking that he was solid.

He held her. Just held her. His chin on the top of her head, his arms tight around her, his heart hammering so hard she had to feel it under her hand.

“I don’t know what’s real anymore,” she said against his shoulder. “I know I should hate every second of everything that happened out there. And I did. I really did.”

“But?” Because there was clearly a but.

“But my brain was quiet, Ryder. The whole time I was out there, I wasn’t spiraling. Not once. Your voice telling me where to look, what to do, when to move. It kept me together. So what does that mean?”

She pulled back enough to look at him. Her eyes were wet and her voice was unsteady.

“I hated how they looked at me. I hated being on the floor. I hated that man asking if you’d share me. I hated all of it. And I also…” She stopped. Started again. “It worked. The framework. The rules. My brain has never been that quiet in a room full of strangers. Never. What does that make me? What kind of person finds peace in being told what to do by a man? Some sort of submissive, like we’ve been playing?”

“Hey. Stop.”

“I’m serious. What does it⁠—”

“You’re not finding peace in submission. You’re finding peace in structure. Your brain needs a framework to manage the input. I gave you one. That’s all this is.”

She chewed on that for a while. “Is it?”

“Yes.” He cupped her face with both hands. Her cheeks were damp. “You are the furthest thing from submissive I’ve ever met. You overrode me when I wanted to get you off this property. You and Fallon spent years fighting for people who couldn’t fight for themselves. You ripped into me the first day we worked together when I accused you of not caring. None of that is submission.”

She stared at him. Her lower lip was trembling and she was fighting it, and he wanted to tell her she didn’t have to fight anything in this room.