He was so hard, it was no wonder he shattered like glass. There were no cracks, no warning signs – he just broke in the middle of the corridor, his pieces skittering across the cold linoleum floor.
Picking those pieces up wasn't her job. But in that one moment, there was no one else, and she stepped forward without truly realizing what she was doing. She reached out, catching his tears and vaguely wondering if she could somehow store them, if she kept good care of them, maybe they could be put back inside afterward.
But she lost track of the tears when suddenly her hands were full of him. He was all muscle and sharp angles, and his weight carried them both down to the ground.
It felt like a thousand needles piercing her skin. With every shake of his shoulders, his edges cut her, and for a second she thought she could see deep angry gashes on her arms, as though she were holding razorblades. But then she blinked the tears and the red fell away and she realized that she wasn't holding glass – she was holding a man.
"I was supposed to protect him," Mac whispered, his jaw moving against the crook of her neck.
She held him tighter, letting the pain cut deeper.