It was strange to stand with Charles in such a place.
He belonged in glass buildings, black cars, private dining rooms, and boardrooms where people measured every breath before answering him. Here, beneath a weak yellow light with chipped paint on the wall beside his shoulder, he looked almost out of place.
Not weaker.
Just less protected by the scenery.
“Mia,” he said at last.
His voice was quiet.
I looked at him.
“You don’t have to walk me down.”
“I’m not walking you down,” I said. “I’m making sure you leave.”
His mouth tightened.
He almost smiled.
It failed.
“I deserved that.”
I did not answer.
He lowered his gaze to the scarf.
His fingers touched the edge of it.
“I should not have thrown it away.”
“No.”
The answer was simple.
It hurt him anyway.
Charles looked at me
