Page 57 of You, Only You

"The encryption timestamps," I said, pointing at the screen, grateful for the excuse to focus on something that wasn't him standing that close. "They correlate exactly with the shell company payments. He was using a separate channel to authorize the transfers."

"Can you tie the messages directly to his personal credentials?"

"Already did." I pulled up the next window. My hands were steady, which I was proud of, because the rest of mewas busy managing the dual awareness of a major evidentiary breakthrough and Will Steele's forearm, which was braced on the table next to my laptop and was, frankly, distracting in a way that forearms should not legally be allowed to be. "His login token. His IP address. His personal encryption key. This isn't Meridian. This is Reeves himself, personally authorizing payments to a trafficking operation."

The quiet that followed should have tasted like victory. We'd been chasing this for weeks. The direct link. The thing that turned circumstantial into prosecutable.

"That's excellent work," Will said.

Excellent work. Like I'd turned in a strong quarterly report. Like we were colleagues who'd never shared oxygen in a dark hallway.

"I'll compile the file for Bates," I said, and turned back to my screen before he could see whatever my face was doing. "He should have it by tonight."

"Good."

I wanted to put my forehead through the laptop screen.

Instead, I worked. Channeled every ounce of frustration into meticulous documentation, because if I couldn't have a functional emotional interaction with the man sitting six feet away from me, I could at least build a federal case so airtight it would make prosecutors weep with joy. I formatted. I cross-referenced. I wrote summary paragraphs with the controlled fury of someone defusing a bomb, which was essentially what I was doing, except the bomb was inside my chest and the wires were all the same colour.

By eleven o'clock, the file was nearly complete and my neck had developed a permanent grievance against my posture. I needed air. I needed to stand somewhere that didn't contain Will Steele and his monosyllables and his forearms.

"I'm going to get some air," I said. "The balcony. Five minutes."

"It's cold out there."

"I'm aware of how weather works, but thank you."

I didn't wait for a response. The small balcony off the living room was barely big enough for two people to stand, which was fine because I only needed room for one person and her rapidly deteriorating emotional state. I wrapped my cardigan tighter and stared at a skyline I didn't recognize. Virginia, Bates had said. Somewhere in Virginia. It didn't matter. One anonymous view was the same as another when you were hiding.

The air was cold and sharp and it smelled like nothing, which was exactly what I wanted. Nothing. No soap. No coffee. No complicated man with complicated eyes and an allergy to emotional honesty.

The sliding door opened behind me.

"You've been out here for fifteen minutes," Will said. "Not five."

"Are you timing me now?" I didn't turn around. "That's a new one. Usually you just install apps."

The silence behind me was thick enough to touch. I regretted the words immediately and also didn't regret them at all, and those two things lived in my chest at the same time the way contradictions always did when it came to Will Steele.

"The file is ready to send," he said after a moment, his voice careful in the way it got when he was navigating something he didn't have a strategy for. "I wanted to let you know."

"Great. Send it."

More silence. I heard him step onto the balcony, felt the air shift as he moved closer. Not close enough to touch. He'd calibrated the distance, the way he calibrated everything, and I was so tired of being calibrated at that something inside mesnapped. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a quiet click, like a latch releasing.

"Stop," I said.

"I haven't..."

"Stop managing the distance." I turned to face him. He was backlit by the warm glow of the apartment, features half in shadow, and he looked tired in a way I recognized because I saw it in my own mirror every morning. "Stop calculating how close you can stand without it meaning something. Stop saying good like it's a full sentence. Stop treating me like a colleague you've never met."

He didn't respond right away. I watched his face for any clue into his thoughts, he was completely immersed in doubt and concern.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, and his voice was rougher than his Professional Will voice, the edges showing through like bones through thin fabric.

"I want you to be honest. For five minutes. Not strategic. Not careful. Just honest." I pulled my cardigan tighter, which was a defensive gesture and I knew it was a defensive gesture and I did it anyway. "Because this..." I gestured at the space between us, at the apartment behind him, at the whole ridiculous charade of the past four days. "This is killing me. And I think it's killing you too, but you'd rather die than admit it, and that's..." I lost the sentence. Chased it. Couldn't find it. "I'm too tired for this, Will. I'm too tired to keep pretending we're something we're not."

"And what are we?"