The arm around her waist was the first thing she registered.
Not his face. Not the corridor. Just the arm — solid and unyielding, pulling her back from the fall with a certainty that suggested it had caught things before and was not particularly troubled by the task.
Then she looked up.
The breath left her body in a way that had nothing to do with the near fall.
He was taller than she had registered in that fraction of a second before impact — broad across the chest and shoulders in the way that came from actual use rather than vanity, his jaw sharp and set, dark hair cut short above a face that was striking less because of softness and more because of the complete absence of it. No warmth arranged for the benefit of strangers.
No performance of approachability. Just a face that look
