The moment she stepped in, Carson knew she didn’t belong—too soft, too uncertain, like a stray cat debating flight. Practical but worn clothes, no jewelry, no perfume. Just wide eyes masking fear. She hesitated, scanning the dim space, shadows over case files and an overfilled paperbin. Her hands gave her away—clutching her bag too tight. Nervous. Desperate. Yet, she didn’t leave "Let me guess—lost parents, tragic backstory?" Carson drawled. "Sweetheart, I don’t do sentimental"
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