The morning sun hit the penthouse windows with unforgiving brightness. William Croft sat at the kitchen island, staring into a black coffee. The memory of the previous night–the panic attack, the tears, the collapse into his employee’s arms–burned in his chest.
He heard footsteps. Sophie entered, checking a schedule on her tablet.
William stiffened, the “Ice King” armor slamming back into place. “About last night,” he said, his voice clipped and cold. “It was… a momentary lapse. Fatigue. It won’t happen again.”
Sophie stopped. She didn’t look at him with the pity he despised. She looked at him with the same steady resolve she had shown the paparazzi in the park.
“You don’t have to apologize for breathing, William,” she said quietly. “You’ve been holding your breath for a year. You didn’t break. You just let go.”
She placed a fresh plate of toast in front of him and turned back to the sink. There was no judgment, no awkwardness. Just a quiet acceptance of his humanity.
William watched her, the tension slowly leaving his shoulders. For the first time since the avalanche, he realized he wasn’t just tolerating her presence. He felt safe.