"Stop, just stop." She steps even closer. "You protected me tonight, you stopped when I asked you to, and now you're beating yourself up about it. But I'm fine, you're fine, everything's fine."
"It doesn't feel fine."
"Again, that's the adrenaline talking."
She's so close now I can feel her breath, can smell that clean, sharp scent that makes my head spin.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Calming you down."
"This isn't calming."
"No?"
"No. This is making everything worse."
"Or better."
She reaches up and touches my face, and the gentleness of it breaks something in me.
I pull her close—not sexual, just close. My arms wrap around her, and she fits against me perfectly.
She doesn't pull away, just wraps her arms around my waist and holds on.
We stand like that for a long time, breathing together, my face in her hair.
The violence is gone now, replaced by something else, something warm and solid and real.
"You okay?" she asks.
"Yeah, I'm okay."
"Good."
We stay like that, and I realize something. She's not afraid of me.
She saw me at my worst and she's not afraid.
That should make me feel better, but it doesn't. It just makes me want to protect her more, makes me want to keep her close.
Which is exactly what I can't do.
But right now, with her in my arms, I can't seem to make myself care.
"I should go," I say eventually.
"You don't have to."
"I do. I need to think."
She pulls back and looks up at me. "Okay, but Rush?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for tonight, for protecting me."
"You don't need to thank me."