The fluorescent tubes flicker once, twice, then flood the room with white. The camera indicator lights blink red—one, then the other. Recording.
My breathing is too controlled, too even—anyone paying attention would notice. But no one is paying attention. The monitoring station is still catching up, still rebooting feeds.
Gage is at the door. He hasn't moved. His eyes are still on us, and he won't look away.
"Gage." Hope's voice is steady. Professional. Nothing in it that says a man just came inside her two minutes ago. "We're done here."
He drops his gaze. His face gives away nothing—not the choice he made, not what he watched, not the fact that he stood guard while a patient fucked his monitor on the table. But his hands aren't steady. His right hand has a tremor that wasn't there before.
That choice is going to cost him. I can see it already—the weight settling into his shoulders as he reaches for the door handle. He broke every protocol he swore to uphold. Not because I asked him to. Because she was in the room, and he couldn't make himself look away.
I catch Hope's wrist before she can step away and pull her back, press my forehead to hers.
"Be careful walking out of here. Gage will escort you. Let him."
"Jude—"
"Just trust me."
She nods. Kisses my cheek. Turns and walks toward the door.
I watch her go. Watch Gage hold the door open without meeting her eyes. I watch them disappear into the corridor together, and my chest tightens at the sight of them side by side. Not jealousy. Not anymore. A thing I don't have a word for yet.
I sit at the table for a long time after they're gone, her smell still on my skin, the memory of her hands on my chest still warm enough to feel. The day room is bright again, cameras rolling, everything back to normal except me. Quiet except for the distant sound of footsteps in the corridor.
I think about the words I didn't say.
I think about her eyes finding his across this table.
I think about what it means that my possessiveness bent instead of broke, and that I let her keep a piece of me.
She looked at him while I was inside her. And instead of tearing everything apart, I held her tighter and let it happen.
I don't share what's mine.
But she wants him. And if giving her that is what it costs to keep her, I'll pay it every time.
Chapter 20
Jude
Kent's visit is scheduled for ten. The guards walked me down at 9:40 and cuffed me to the floor plate under the supervised visiting table, and I've spent the last few minutes watching the main corridor through the reinforced window.
The transfer line comes through at 9:47. Six patients in wrist and ankle shackles, shuffling toward whatever appointment the schedule demands. Most keep their eyes down. Institutional submission, beaten into them by years of learning that eye contact invites trouble.
One doesn't.
Casey Robin is fourth in the line. Ward A. Movement privileges. Full corridor access during approved hours. Average height, soft features, a face that makes nurses smile and guards relax.
I've caught him twice during my own transfers. Brief glimpses through the corridor glass, a few seconds each while the guards walked me past. Both times Casey sat in a common area along Hope's route, angled toward the door she'd come through. Two glimpses shouldn't be enough to build a pattern, but I know what positioning looks like, and Casey positions.
Hope mentioned him a few weeks back. Said there was a patient in Ward A whose engagement was improving, meds working, that he was a nice kid. Then she caught herself, laughed, said sorry, she shouldn't be talking about another patient's case with me.
Nice kid. The words stuck.
She has no idea what she's looking at. She sees medication compliance and positive indicators. I see a man who's learned her schedule and planted himself along her route, and the only reason the staff don't see it is because they're too busy watching me.
When the line passes the window, Casey's head turns. Our eyes meet.
