"Senior." A little sharp. The Chief's voice reasserting. "I am aware of what I'm allowed to be."
"Are you."
She opened her mouth.
He found the specific point at the base of her neck where the muscle had been holding six years of compound management, and he pressed.
"—Hn." The sound arrived without her permission.
She straightened.
He continued the pressure.
She had excellent posture. She had always had excellent posture. The Chief's bearing — this was something she had maintained with the specific, absolute consistency of a woman who understood that how she occupied space communicated authority before she said a word.
The posture was doing its best.
Under his hand, it was losing the argument at a cellular level.
"Stop," she said.
"You're crying," he said. "You're stressed. I'm helping."
"You're—" She stopped. "This isn't—"
"Appropriate," he said, finishing her sentence. "No. Probably not."
He did not stop.
She did not move away.
