GREGORY'S POV....
I called her Monroe on purpose.
Not Tinsel. Not…girl. _Monroe_.
Because if I said Tinsel with her standing in my office, twelve inches away, looking at me like I'm the first solid thing she's seen in two years, I would've lost.
And I'm twenty-five. I'm not supposed to lose.
She closed the door. _Click_. The sound went straight to my spine.
She's still in my hoodie looking like a twelve year old.
I don't do anything wrong with her.
Except I want her.
She argues with me about the time. 9:03. 9:04. Her voice shakes but she still argues. Good. Fight. Don't let me steamroll you. Don't let anyone.
I throw the Monroe Holdings folder on the desk because I need a reason to be close to her that isn't _I need to be close to her.
She flinches when I reach past her.
That kills me.
Not the flinch. The fact that she hates that she flinched. I see it in her face. Shame. Two years of being under her aunt's thumb and she thinks flinching makes her weak.
I want to embrace her warmly and comfort her.
Instead I open the folder.
Page one. Page six. Page twelve.
My voice doesn't sound like mine. It's lower. Dragging. Because her hair smells like the shampoo from my shower. Because I can see her pulse in her neck. Because her mouth is parted like she forgot how to close it.
She looks up.
Mistake.
Her eyes are brown. Not soft brown. Dark. Deep. Like wood that's been burned.
And I'm twelve inches away.
I could do it.
I could close the distance. I could find out if her mouth tastes like coffee or like smoke or like nothing because she's never been kissed right.
I want to.
God, I want to.
My eyes drop. Without permission. To her mouth. One second.
One second and I see it: she wants it too.
She's not breathing. She's waiting. She's wanting.
And that's why I step back.
Because Christine Monroe.
Because I've had PIs on her for six days. Because I have a probate filing. Because I have the guardianship papers. Because I have two years of bank records.
Christine is her aunt. Blood. Legal. The court gave her Tinsel after the fire. No one contested it. No one checked.
For two years, Tinsel was in her aunt's custody. In that house on Oakridge towards the opposite side of Panther Street that had been abandoned. No school enrollment. No doctor visits. No social media. No friends listed. Nothing. I made sure to check everywhere.
My PIs couldn't get inside. Gated. Abandoned . Looked like no one had even lived there.
That's all I know. I don't know what room. I don't know what color the walls were. I don't need to. Two years is enough.
I haven't told Tinsel.
Because if I say "I know your aunt kept you in that house for two years," she's going to hear "I know" and think I know everything. And I don't. And she'll either shut down or she'll break.
And if she breaks, I'll go to Oakridge tonight. And I'll do something at twenty-five that I can't come back from at forty.
So I don't tell her.
I step back instead.
I sat down. Open my laptop. Look at nothing.
"Is that all?" she asks.
Her voice is wrecked. Because I wrecked it. Because I got close and then I left her there.
"Yes," I say. "Shut the door on your way out."
She doesn't shut it.
Good. Be difficult. Be alive.
She leaves.
I waited ten seconds. Then I get up and shut the door myself. Click.
Then I put my fist into the wall.
Drywall. Not stud. I'm twenty-five, not stupid.
It still hurts. Good.
I look at my knuckles. Blood. Again.
Now I've got blood on mine because I didn't touch her.
That's the difference between us.
She runs into fire.
I stand in it and burn alone so she doesn't have to.
I pull up the file on my laptop. Christine Monroe. Photo. Fifty-two. Blonde. Thin. Smiling in the courtroom when they granted her guardianship.
I've got three PIs on her. I know where she eats. Where she sleeps. Where she volunteers at church.
I won't touch her. Yet.
Because Tinsel signed page twelve. Deposition Schedule: T. Monroe.
In two weeks she's going to sit in a room and tell a lawyer what happened in that house.
And I'm going to be in the hall.
And when she comes out, Christine Monroe's life is going to end.
Not her breathing. Her life. Money. Reputation. Freedom. All of it.
I'll do it legally. Clean. No jail.
Because Tinsel needs me out. Not in a cell.
I look at the door. She went back to her office. I don't know if she locked it. I hope she did.
I look at my desk. The folder's gone. She took it.
She signed it.
_T. Monroe_.
Her name. Not mine. Not yet.
But she wanted me to kiss her.
And I didn't.
And that's going to have to be enough for now.
Because if I touch her before she tells me what those two years were, in her words, when she's ready, then I'm just another person who took without asking.
So I hold.
I'm twenty-five.
That's what I do.
I hold.