Page 87 of You, Only You

"But I didn't."

She'd crossed the kitchen and kissed me; it was brief, warm, approving. "Progress."

Progress.That was the word we used. Not perfection. Not transformation. Just progress, measured in small victories and honest admissions.

Twice, in moments of irrational anxiety when she was late coming home, I'd caught myself reaching for a tracking app that no longer existed on my phone. Old muscle memory, deeply grooved. Both times, my stomach had turned with shame. And both times, I'd told her.

The first time, she'd gone quiet, hurt clouding her eyes. "I thought we were past this."

"We are. I didn't actually do anything. But I wanted to, and you should know that."

"Why are you telling me?"

"Because secrets are what poison this. You said that. In the safe house."

She'd studied me for a long moment. Then: "Okay. Thank you for telling me."

The second time, months later, she'd simply taken my hand. "What are you worried about?"

"You were supposed to be home an hour ago."

"My meeting ran long. I texted."

"I know. My brain knows. My—" I'd stopped, frustrated.

"Your survival instincts don't care about texts."

"No. They don't."

"Then tell me when you're spiraling. Don't reach for control. Reach for me instead."

Progress. Painful, incremental, real.

The letter from the state bar arrived on a Tuesday. Lindsey had been facing a formal review since the trial; her courtroomadmission about our relationship had triggered an ethics inquiry. I'd offered to hire the best attorney in the country.

"No," she'd said firmly. "I tell the truth. Same truth I told the jury."

"They could sanction you. Revoke your certification."

"Then they do." She'd met my eyes. "I made a choice. I stand by it."

The waiting had been excruciating. For me, anyway. She'd seemed almost serene, continuing to work, refusing to let the uncertainty consume her.

When the letter finally came, I watched her open it. Watched her eyes scan the page. Watched her face for any sign of devastation.

"No disciplinary action," she said quietly. "The evidence was independently verified. My personal relationship didn't compromise the integrity of the investigation." She looked up. "There's a note about 'maintaining professional boundaries in future engagements.'"

"That's it?"

"That's it."

The relief was staggering. But something in her expression made me wait.

"I'm not renewing my contract with the bar," she said.

"What?"

"I've been thinking about it for a while. The kind of work I want to do, on the cases that matter, the ones where the system has failed, they don't come through official channels." She set the letter down and looked at me. "I want to work with you. Not for you. With you. Partners."