"You're supposed to be the sensible one, you know."
"You're supposed to take unnecessary risks."
"Not when it comes to you."
His reply is unplanned and unguarded, reactionary and completely honest. When Cal says things like that in moments like this, Gillian thinks of them as "excited utterances." She prefers to use the legal phrase. She feels like the only witness.
Out of the corner of her eye, she can see surprise on his face, not at his words, but at their spontaneity. By the time she turns to look at him, the surprise has vanished and he's fixed her with a familiar gaze of intense sincerity, coupled with guilt and apologies.
She smiles at the awkwardness of his declaration and the intensity with which he needs her to believe it. And she takes comfort in it. She's safe. There are limits. He wouldn't ever knowingly put her in danger.
Sometime soon, when they've finished the case and they're laughing over a drink in his office, she'll think about other ways he won't take risks when it comes to her. She'll take comfort in those ways, too. They're safe. There are boundaries. He wouldn't put their friendship, their partnership in danger.
Sometime later, when they're working their next case and Cal can't keep his eyes off of Clara, when he's pushing professional boundaries with their client and investor, when she's worried about the financial repercussions of his behavior and annoyed that he's being so reckless, she reminds herself that Cal likes to take unnecessary risks. She thinks of that moment in her kitchen and she wonders briefly why he finds the risk with her so unnecessary. She reproaches herself for being so petty, for using his words, his "excited utterance," to convict him of something that isn't even a crime. He should feel safe with her. There should be limits between them. They shouldn't put their life in danger.