"Yeah." I hold his gaze, feeling braver than I have in years. "There are women who would look at you, at this life you've built, these men you protect, these principles you stand for, and think it's worth the risk. Would think you're worth the risk."
"Maybe," he says finally. "But that's not a choice I'm willing to make. Not when it means asking someone to live with constant danger. Not when I've already lost so many people I cared about."
The pain in his voice is old but not healed. His parents. The good men who died three years ago. Every loss has taught him that loving Phoenix comes with a price, and he's decided no one else should have to pay it.
It's selfless, heartbreaking and completely wrong. But I don't know him well enough to say that. Don't have the right to tell him he deserves happiness, deserves someone who'll stand beside him through the darkness.
So, instead, I just sit here, watching him watch me, and wish things were different. Wish I was different. Older, less damaged, not the catalyst for a war that might kill him.
Wish he was different. Less convinced of his own isolation, more willing to believe someone could love him despite the danger.
But we are who we are. And this moment, right now, is all we have.
Chapter 7 - Phoenix
What the hell am I doing?
I'm sitting on the floor of a bedroom, talking to a woman I barely know about relationships and possible futures when I don't even know what's happening tomorrow. When the Vipers could show up in an hour or a day and turn everything into chaos and blood and violence.
I shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be alone with Ivy in this small room, talking to her like we're long-lost friends or something more.
Something more.
The thought loops through my mind. She's running from an abusive relationship, traumatized and vulnerable, seeking protection not romance. She's the catalyst for a war that might kill me and everyone I've sworn to protect.
Every rational part of my brain is screaming at me to get up, walk out, and put distance between us before I do something stupid.
But I don't move.
Because sitting here with Ivy, watching the morning light catch in her auburn hair, seeing her eyes brighten when she asks questions, it feels like life. Like living instead of just surviving. Like getting a glimpse of what normal people have, what they take for granted every day.
Connection. Conversation. The simple pleasure of being with someone who makes you forget, even for a moment, about the darkness waiting outside.
I've never had this. Never let myself have it. The string of one-night stands that litter my past were about release, aboutscratching an itch, nothing more. I'd end things before names were exchanged, before anyone could mistake sex for intimacy.
This is different.
This is dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with bullets and blood.
But it might also be my last chance. My last opportunity to sit with a woman I'm starting to care about, and I am, God help me, I'm already starting to care about her, before the war starts and I'm forced to shut down everything except tactical thinking and survival instinct.
Just for a little while, I want to pretend we're normal people having a normal conversation. Want to imagine there's a world where I could actually pursue this feeling blooming in my chest.
A dream. That's all it is. But for now, before everything goes to hell, I want to hold onto it.
"What would you like to do in the future?" I ask, genuinely curious. "If you could do anything, be anything."
Ivy's expression softens, becomes wistful. "I'd love to be a teacher."
The answer surprises me. I don't know what I expected, something practical, maybe, but the conviction in her voice tells me this is real. A genuine dream, not just a throwaway answer.
"Yeah?" I encourage her to continue.
"My mother was a teacher. Elementary school, second grade." Ivy's smile is sad but genuine. "She loved it. Used to come home every day with stories about her kids, about what they'd learned or said or done. She'd spend hours preparing lessons, making sure every child felt seen and valued. I grew up watching her pour her heart into those kids, and I wanted to be exactly like her."
Her mother is gone, has been for years. But the love in Ivy's voice, the admiration, that's still alive.
"More than just teaching," she continues, "I want to be a positive impact on kids' lives. Want to be the person who makes them feel safe, who encourages their curiosity, who helps them become whoever they're meant to be."
