"And you've got me."
The words slip out before I can stop them, carrying implications that make the air between us electric with tension. Because that's what I'm really saying, isn't it? That whatever happens next, we're facing it together. That I'm not walking away this time, regardless of how complicated or dangerous things get.
That I'm choosing her over my own safety, just like she chose me over her professional obligations.
"Do I?" she asks quietly, and there's something vulnerable in her voice despite the controlled expression on her face. "Because you walked away once before when things got complicated. What makes this different?"
The question hits like a physical blow, because it cuts straight to the heart of what I need her to understand. That nine years of distance taught me exactly what I lost when I convinced myself I was protecting her. That seeing her again—seeing what she's become, how she's transformed survival into strength—has made it clear that walking away was the wrong choice for all the right reasons.
That I'm not the same man who left her crying in that hotel room, just like she's not the same girl who thanked me for killing her father.
"Because I was wrong," I say simply. "About what you needed, about what you deserved, about what you could handle. I was wrong about everything except how remarkable you are."
Something shifts in her expression, the careful armor cracking just enough to let me see the woman underneath. Not the controlled professional or the dominant force who made me beg, but someone who's been carrying nine years of abandonment and is afraid to hope that this time might be different.
"Words are easy, Kent," she says, but her voice is softer now, less guarded. "Living up to them is harder."
"Then let me stay. Let me prove that I've learned from the biggest mistake of my life." I lean forward, not close enough to touch but close enough that she can see the sincerity in my eyes. "Let me be your partner in figuring out who's doing this and why."
For a long moment, she doesn't respond. Just studies my face like she's looking for cracks in my resolve, signs that I'll run when the pressure becomes too intense. Whatever she sees there must satisfy her, because she nods once, sharp and decisive.
"Partners," she agrees. "But not equals. This is my territory, my investigation, my resources. You follow my lead."
"Understood."
"And if you walk away again…." She doesn't finish the threat, doesn't need to. Because we both understand that there won't be a third chance, that whatever forgiveness she might be willing to consider extends only as far as my commitment to see this through.
"I won't," I promise, and mean it with every fiber of my being. "Whatever happens, whoever's doing this, whatever they want from us—I won't walk away."
She searches my face one more time, then nods. "Then we'd better figure out who's playing games with our lives. Because if they're willing to kill innocent people to get our attention, they won't stop at two murders."
"They'll escalate," I agree. "And next time, they might target someone closer to home."
The implication hangs between us, loaded with possibilities neither of us wants to voice. Because if someone knows enough about our history to manipulate us both, they likely know about the people who matter to her. Lila's aunt, her friend Casey, anyone who might be used as leverage to force us into whatever game they're really playing.
Anyone who might become collateral damage in someone else's psychological experiment.
"We'll stop them first," Lila says, and there's something in her voice that reminds me of the girl who once helped meposition a dead body with clinical precision. "Whatever they want, whoever they are—we'll end this before anyone else gets hurt."
I nod, recognizing the commitment in her tone. Because that's what we're doing here, isn't it? Committing to each other, to whatever partnership we can build from the wreckage of what we used to have. Not romance, not forgiveness, but alliance in the face of a threat that could destroy us both.
It's not what I'd hoped for when I decided to come to her door tonight. It's a start. A chance to prove that I've learned from my mistakes, that I can be trusted as an ally if not as anything more.
A chance to show her that the man who walked away nine years ago has become someone worthy of staying, regardless of what that staying might cost us both.
Outside her windows, the city continues its anonymous dance of light and shadow, millions of people living and dying and struggling with their own carefully hidden truths. But up here, fifteen floors above it all, we sit surrounded by evidence of someone else's game, trying to understand rules we didn't agree to play by.
And for the first time in nine years, I can feel I'm exactly where I belong.
All because of her.
I watch her across the coffee table, the police files spread out like a battlefield between us, each photograph and evidence card a landmine waiting to detonate.
Lila’s silk robe clings to her damp skin, the hem riding up just enough to make it clear she’s playing a game with me—teasing, taunting, daring me to cross lines she’s already drawn in the sand. She’s in control, or so she thinks, sitting there withher legs crossed and her eyes sharp enough to cut through my carefully constructed calm.
If I’m going to stay, if I’m going to earn back even a fraction of the trust I burned, I need to show her I’m not afraid of the woman she’s become. Not the professional armor, not the calculated cruelty, not the way she wields desire like a weapon. I need her to see I’m all in—whatever that means, whatever it costs.
“I’m staying at a motel six blocks from here,” I say, leaning back in my chair, keeping my voice low and unhurried. “Cash payment, no paper trail. But it’s not where I want to be.”
