Reeves is bawling, completely distraught, and I can’t stand the sight of him.
I did this to him.
Caine walks out slowly, politely, a bloody hand on his lip.
Greg leaves us alone, too, but not before shooting me a look that could kill.
I sit across from Reeves, and am at a complete loss for words. No amount of ‘Sorrys’ can fix this.
I listen to the excruciating sound of his heartbreak. It’s painful, but I deserve every second of it. I need tostay here with him, no matter how much I want to leave.
The wail of sirens cuts through the tension like a knife. Within minutes, two uniformed officers fill the doorway of our cramped office, their presence making the small space feel even more suffocating.
"Someone called about a disturbance?" The older officer, a stocky man with graying temples, surveys the scene with practiced eyes that immediately land on Caine's split lip.
My heart hammers against my ribs as we step into the office and I watch Reeves’s face cycle through emotions—rage, humiliation, defeat.
"Just a heated discussion that got a little out of hand," Caine says smoothly, dabbing at his lip with a tissue. His voice remains steady, controlled. "Nothing more."
The officer looks skeptical. "Sir, you're bleeding. Are you sure you don't want to press charges?"
"Positive." Caine's eyes find mine for just a moment before returning to the officer. "It was a misunderstanding between old acquaintances."
I want to collapse with relief. He could destroy Reeves right now—have him arrested, make everything so much worse than it already is. But he doesn't. He doesn't press charges because, despite everything that's happened between us, despite the hate and rage writtenacross Reeves’s face, Caine understands what an arrest would mean. He knows Reeves is already down, and there's no sense kicking him further.
The officers take statements anyway, but without Caine pressing charges, there's nothing they can do. They warn everyone to keep things civil and eventually leave, taking the oppressive energy with them.
Caine straightens his jacket and moves toward the door. "I should leave."
"Caine, wait." I follow him, leaving Reeves behind. My chest aches seeing the damage—not just to his lip, but to everything I’ve built with Reeves and destroyed today.
"Thank you," I whisper when we're alone by the front door. "For not pressing charges. For protecting him."
He pauses, his hand on the door handle. "I didn't do it for him."
The words hang between us, heavy with meaning.
"I want to see you tomorrow," he says quietly. "There's a coffee shop on Maple Street, near your house. Two o'clock?"
I should say no. I should tell him we need space, time, that this whole situation is spiralling beyond our control. Instead, I find myself nodding.
"I'll be there."
His fingers brush mine—so briefly anyone watchingwould miss it—but the contact sends electricity shooting up my arm. When he looks at me, I see the same desperate longing that's been eating me alive.
God help me, I'm still drowning in this man. And I don't want to be saved.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The coffee shop on Maple Street feels like neutral territory—a cozy little place with mismatched furniture and the scent of cinnamon hanging in the air.
I arrive first, choosing a corner table where we can talk without being overheard. My hands shake as I wrap them around my chai tea, the warmth doing nothing to calm my nerves.
When Caine walks through the door, my breath catches. He looks tired, worn down in a way I've never seen before. His lip is split, and his green eyes seem dimmed.
He orders plain black coffee and joins me at the table, but doesn't quite meet my gaze at first.
"How's your lip?" I ask softly.
