What if she doesn't open the door? What if she opens it and slams it in my face? What if I've destroyed this beyond any possibility of repair?
The fear is a living thing, coiling in my chest. The same fear that made me bench her. The same fear that's driven every terrible choice I've made since I realized I cared about her.
Luciano would be proud. He spent decades teaching me that caring was weakness. I escaped him, killed him, built an empire on his ashes, and I'm still letting him win.
No more.
I knock. Two deliberate raps against the wood.
The footsteps inside stop. A pause. Then they approach the door.
It opens.
Celeste stands in the doorway, still in the black leggings and gray sweater from before. Her dark hair is loose around her shoulders, slightly disheveled, like she's been running her hands through it. Her eyes are guarded, her body tense, braced for another blow.
The sight of her hits me like a physical force. Even now, even with everything broken between us, I want to reach for her. Want to pull her close and promise that I'll never hurt her again.
But promises are just words. And words aren't enough anymore.
"I'm not here to apologize," I say.
Something flickers across her face, surprise, maybe, or suspicion. "Then why are you here?"
"To show you something." I keep my voice steady, though itcosts me. "You've been reinstated. Full active status, effective immediately. I removed the restriction myself."
She stares at me. The guardedness is still there, but underneath it, I see confusion. Like she's waiting for the catch, the condition, the way this will turn into another cage.
"Why?" she asks finally.
"Because you were right. About the pattern." I hold her gaze, refusing to look away despite how exposed I feel. "When you compared me to Luciano, I'm not going to pretend that didn't hit hard. What he did to me... a hundred and fifty years of enslavement isn't the same as benching you from field duty. I know that."
I pause, forcing myself to continue.
"But the pattern is there. Taking your choices away. Using protection as justification. Deciding I knew better than you what you needed." My voice roughens. "That's what he did to me, at the core of it. Wrapped chains in silk and called them safety. I learned that from him, learned it so well I didn't even recognize when I was doing it to someone else."
She's watching me, expression unreadable.
"I'm not him," I say. "But I was using his playbook. And that stops now."
The words hang in the air between us. She's close enough that I can see the faint shadows under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders. Close enough to smell the lavender from the medical wing sheets still clinging to her skin.
Close enough to touch, if I dared.
I don't.
"Konstantin hit our Decatur depot tonight," I continue. "Burned it down while I was…"Falling apart."Dealing with this. He's escalating. We need everyone functional, which means I need you in the field, making decisions, using that tactical mind ofyours. Not because I'm over my fear, but because the work matters more than my comfort."
Something shifts in her expression. Not softening, not yet.
"You're serious," she says slowly.
"I'm serious."
"And if I make a choice you don't like? If I take a risk you think is too dangerous?"
"Then I'll tell you my concerns. And then I'll respect whatever you decide." The words feel like swallowing glass, but I mean them. "Your life, your choices. I don't get to override that just because I'm afraid."
She's quiet for a long moment. I can see her processing, weighing, deciding whether to believe me. The silence stretches until it feels like it might snap.
