Trisha and the others were already outside waiting for us. Emma mutely dropped my hand and walked over to her.

"Thanks," she mumbled as Trisha handed Emma her phone that she had forgotten on the table.

"That was so hot!" Trisha exclaimed as she bounced past Emma and punched me in the arm.

She said something else to me, but I didn't hear her. I was too focused on Emma, who was struggling with the closed clasp of her clutch.

I sidestepped Trisha's theatrics and gingerly took the small purse from Emma's shaking hands. I pressed firmly against it, and the mechanism sprung open. Emma silently slipped her phone inside as I held it open to her.

"Want me to take you home?" I whispered softly enough so none of the others could hear.

She glanced over my shoulder at Trisha still animatedly talking with their friends. Emma shook her head.

I hesitated before offering, "My place?"

She looked down at her shoes—the same strappy heels she had worn on our first date—and nodded.

* * *

Emma said nothing during the drive to my flat. She hadn't said anything when we parted from the rest of the group either. A few of her friends had offered sympathetic smiles, though the others had become too excited, like Trisha, to notice Emma's solemn silence.

As I led her up the main stairs of my building, I tried to mentally picture my flat and what family photos—and of whom—were on display. The only framed photo I could recall was the group portrait of my nieces of nephews given to me by their mother, Matilda, my eldest sister, as a house-warming gift. Though her family was often trotted out in front of the press, the picture was several years old and I doubted it would raise any suspicion in Emma—if she even noticed it sitting on my bookshelf.

I dropped Emma's hand as I fished out my keys from my pants' pocket. She hovered silently behind me while I unlocked the front door. It swung open and I stepped into the doorway, letting her pass.

"Why don't you rest on the couch," I suggested. "And I'll fix us something to drink... Tea or wine?"

"Whiskey," she mumbled as she walked past me and into the living room.

I swiftly closed the door behind us and headed toward the drink cart in the kitchen. "You got it."

When I returned from the kitchen with a tumbler in each hand and the bottle tucked under my arm, I found Emma curled over the edge of the couch struggling with the tiny buckle that held the taut straps of her heels in place. I immediately deposited the glasses and bottle on the nearby coffee table and kneeled in front of her.

I fought the urge to reach out and touch her, instead I lifted my gaze from her trembling fingers to her tear-streaked face. My breath hitched as I took in her red glistening eyes and puffy lips.

She hastily leaned back into the cushions of the couch, away from me, and dragged her fingers under her eyes in an attempt to wipe away any evidence of her tears.

"Sorry," she sniffed. "I just hate feeling weak."

I stooped lower, trying to catch her eye. "You're not weak, Ems. You nailed him right in the balls. I wouldn't be surprised if they don't descend again for another week."

She huffed. "Tom—"

"No really!"

"Look, I know you're just trying to make me feel better, but—"

"Yes," I nodded. "I am. So you just let me know what to do to make that happen."

Emma sucked in her lips as she lowered her gaze to my prostrated figure. She hesitated and then, as another freed tear cascaded down her cheek, whispered:

"You're doing it."

I reached up and gingerly wiped away the residual wetness on her cheek. "Can I hold you?"

"Can you help me take off these damn torture devices first?" She asked as she feebly lifted her right foot.

"O'course," I laughed as I gently cradled her heel in my palms and worked the buckle. The straps eventually loosened and then slid freely from her ankle. I placed her barefoot on my thigh and tossed the damn shoe across the room before starting work on the next one.

When both of her feet were free, I lifted myself up onto the couch and Emma immediately nestled her body into mine.

The top of her head fit perfectly under my chin, as if we had been carved from the same block. I savored the thought and the feel of her cradled there next to me. My one arm hooked around her shoulders, holding her to me, while the other moved rhythmically as my thumb traced ellipses down her back.

"He tore my shirt," she murmured as she fiddled with the flowy material.

I glanced down and took in the gaping hole she had exposed where a hidden clasp apparently used to be. She dropped the material and wrapped her arms around my abdomen. I pulled her tighter into me and kissed the top of her head.

"I don't want to talk about it," she said before I could respond. "I just... want to sit."

I pressed my lips to her hair and nodded silently as my thumb recommenced its tracing. 

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