Water dripped from Olivia's chin onto the tile, one slow drop at a time, and for a moment that was the only sound in the hallway.

Killian didn't move. He couldn't. He stood frozen in the doorway, staring at the woman on the floor, and every furious thing he had rehearsed for seven straight years, every cold word he'd planned to say to her the moment they finally crossed paths, evaporated like it had never existed at all.

Because that wasn't just some janitor gasping for breath in front of him.

That was Olivia.

Her hair hung in wet, ruined strands around her face. A red mark bloomed high on her cheek where someone had struck her, and her hand, God, her hand was already swelling, curled protectively against her chest like she was trying to hide it from the world. She was soaked through, shivering, filthy water dripping off her jaw onto a floor she'd probably spent all afternoon scrubbing clean.

The anger he'd carried across an ocean and back, the anger that had fueled two championship seasons, went strangely quiet inside him, replaced by something far more dangerous. Something that looked a lot like the boy he used to be.

"She attacked us first," the one with the nose piercing blurted, already backing toward the wall, her voice pitched high and defensive. "We were just telling her to do her job and she pushed Renee, we didn't do anything she didn't start."

Killian didn't even look at her.

"Security," he said, his voice flat and even, carrying easily down the hallway. "Pull the footage from this corridor. All of it, starting from whenever this started."

He turned his head, finally, toward the two women still standing over Olivia like they had every right to be there. "Step back from her. Now."

Something in his tone made both of them move without arguing.

Olivia was already pushing herself up off the floor, one hand braced against the wall, her jaw tight with the effort of not letting her legs give out beneath her. Pain shot through her shoulder with every small movement, sharp enough to steal her breath, but she kept her spine straight anyway, kept her chin lifted, because she would rather collapse in the parking lot alone than let Killian Ashford watch her fall apart in front of him.

He reached toward her without thinking, his hand extended, open.

"Don't." The word came out sharper than she intended, and she saw something flicker across his face, quick and wounded, gone almost before it registered. "I'm fine."

Her legs nearly betrayed her right then, a violent tremor running through her knees, and she caught herself hard against the wall, teeth clenched around the pain radiating up from her ruined fingers. She would not let him see her fall. Not him. Not after everything.

Footsteps came clicking fast down the hallway, and Mara appeared around the corner, one hand flying to her chest in a performance of horror so practiced it might have fooled someone who didn't know her.

"Oh my god, what happened here?" Her eyes swept the scene, the overturned bucket, the water on the floor, Olivia trembling against the wall, and settled, briefly, coldly, on Killian's expression before smoothing back into something soft and concerned. "You two, what did you do? I told you to speak to her, not put your hands on her."

The rebuke sounded convincing enough. But Killian noticed what she didn't say. Not once did she glance at Olivia's swollen hand. Not once did she ask if she was hurt, if she needed a doctor, if she could even stand on her own. Her concern, if it could be called that, was aimed entirely at controlling the story before he could form his own opinion of it.

Something cold slid down Killian's spine, an old memory surfacing before he could stop it. Mara's face, seven years ago, right before she slammed into Olivia at the edge of that football field. That same blankness. That same absence of anything resembling a conscience.

He said nothing to her. He crouched instead, gathering the scattered cleaning supplies that had spilled across the tile, the mop, a bottle of solution, a rag soaked through with dirty water. When he reached for the mop handle, Olivia's fingers closed around it at the exact same moment, and their hands brushed.

It lasted less than a second.

But it was enough. Enough to send something electric racing up both their arms, enough to make Olivia's breath catch audibly in her throat, enough to make Killian's jaw tighten as seven years of carefully built distance cracked straight down the middle. He pulled his hand back first, standing quickly, like he'd touched something hot.

Neither of them said a word.

Down at the end of the hallway, a cluster of Thunderbirds players had gathered near the double doors, mid tour, clearly having wandered in during the commotion. A tall receiver elbowed the man beside him, eyebrows raised, and they watched in silence as their brand new captain, the same man who'd just won a championship and left an entire team behind to come here, knelt on a wet floor to pick up a janitor's mop instead of shaking hands with the agency's executives.

"Didn't expect that from the new guy," one of them murmured.

Killian didn't hear it. His attention had already snagged on something else, a thin line of blood tracking down between Olivia's fingers, dripping onto the tile in small, dark drops.

His stomach dropped.

"You're bleeding." His voice came out rougher than he meant it to.

Olivia glanced down at her own hand like she was only just noticing it herself, her face going pale.

"It's fine," she said, though her voice wavered on the word.

Killian ignored her entirely, turning toward the nurse's office door at the end of the corridor. "Get someone from medical out here," he called, loud enough that heads turned. "Now."

"Killian, honestly, it's not that serious." Mara stepped closer, her hand landing lightly on his forearm, her voice syrupy with practiced patience. "These girls made an honest mistake. They're good workers, really, they just got a little carried away. There's no need to overreact."

Killian turned to face her fully then, and whatever warmth might have existed in his expression before was gone completely, replaced by something so cold it seemed to lower the temperature of the entire hallway. Even the players near the door went quiet.

"I don't care whose favorites they are." His voice was calm, level, and somehow that made it worse than shouting ever could have. "Fire them."

Mara's mouth opened, some protest already forming, but nothing came out. Her confident smile, the one she'd been wearing since the moment she spotted him in the lobby, slowly slid off her face, leaving something uncertain and exposed behind it, something that looked, for the first time since he'd walked through those doors, genuinely afraid.