Every writer has their little rituals.

Some people light candles. Some people have a lucky mug. Some people can apparently write in complete silence like absolute psychopaths.

Here’s what I can’t write without.

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Headphones (preferably noise-canceling)

I cannot overstate how much I need these.

I don’t have a dedicated office, so most of my writing happens from the recliner in my living room while my husband, kids, and dogs continue living their very loud, perfectly normal lives around me.

If I can hear the TV, someone asking where their shoes are, or a dog barking at absolutely nothing...my focus is gone.

Spotify

This goes hand-in-hand with the headphones.

I have playlists for almost every project and every mood. Emotional scenes. Romantic scenes. Tension. Revision. Even one that’s basically just for outlining and building character bibles.

The right song can pull me back into a story faster than almost anything else.

A drink

Usually an Alani.

Sometimes a soda.

Less often...water.

Okay, it’s never water.

But every writing session starts with me convincing myself that this might finally be the day I become one of those people who’s properly hydrated.

It has yet to happen.

A blanket

If I’m writing in my recliner, there has to be a blanket over my legs. It feels wrong otherwise.

My feet get cold ridiculously fast, and for reasons I can’t explain, socks make me want to crawl out of my own skin.

So blanket it is. Every single time.

Those four things don’t magically make the words come easier.

But they do tell my brain, Okay. It’s time to write.

Now I’m curious...

What’s the one thing you always need before you can settle in and do your best work?

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One of the most common pieces of writing advice you’ll hear is this: Trust your reader.

Don’t overexplain. Don’t spell out every emotion. For the love of the stars, don’t connect every dot. Give your audience enough credit to participate in the story.

I believe that with my whole chest.

But lately I’ve been thinking about the other side of that relationship.

Recently, a writing friend read the opening chapters of one of my works-in-progress and suggested I move several pieces of information much earlier in the manuscript because they had questions.

At first, I wondered if they were right. Then I realized something.

Every one of those questions was answered.

Just...not yet.

It reminded me of one of my favorite Sheldon Cooper moments from The Big Bang Theory. He’s reading a scientific paper and keeps stopping to ask, “Why?” Frustrated, he turns the page—only to discover the paper answers the very question he just asked.

Sometimes the answer is on the next page.

Stories work the same way.

Readers are supposed to have questions. Why did they react that way? Why are they so guarded? What aren’t they saying?

Those questions aren’t signs that a story is broken. They’re often the very reason we keep reading.

That’s different from confusion.

If a reader genuinely can’t follow what’s’s happening, that’s on me as the writer.

But if they’re asking a question I’ve intentionally planted because the answer comes three chapters—or thirty chapters—later, that’s not a flaw.

It’s a promise.

I found myself thinking about this while revising Emergency Contacts.

In Sofie’s opening chapter, she says something that feels like it should explain everything about her. If you stopped reading there, you’d probably assume you’ve identified her deepest wound.

You haven’t.

You’ve only found the first layer.

Adam is the same way. Early on, he remembers something that seems to explain why he’s pursuing medicine. It feels foundational.

Until you spend more time with him and he trusts you enough to tell you more.

Because that’s how people actually work.

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When you meet someone for the first time, they don’t hand you a neatly organized timeline of every defining moment in their life. They don’t begin with their deepest heartbreak or the experience that fundamentally changed who they are.

They tell you what they’re ready to tell you.

Relationships are built in layers. The more trust exists, the more truth gets revealed.

I think stories should work the same way.

As writers, we’re often told to trust our readers. I would argue readers have to trust writers, too.

Trust that an unanswered question isn’t necessarily an oversight. Trust that not every motivation belongs in Chapter One. And that a character can say something completely true without it being the whole truth.

There’s a difference between withholding information to manufacture suspense and revealing information the way human beings actually reveal themselves.

The first feels manipulative. The second feels like falling in love with a character.

Of course, critique partners are invaluable. Sometimes they point out genuine confusion. Sometimes we’ve buried something too deeply or failed to establish enough context. That’s part of the revision process.

But sometimes the question they’re asking is exactly the question the story intends them to ask.

Often, it’s not because the author forgot the answer. It’s just that the answer hasn’t been earned yet.

As readers, we often ask writers to trust us. Maybe we should return the favor.

Sometimes the next page is exactly where the answer is waiting.

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No one really talks about how you can know someone for years without really understanding them.

When I first met my fertility specialist as a twenty-five-year-old woman with no health issues aside from PCOS and endometriosis, I’d already heard his reputation for having awful bedside manners. He was polite when I met him. He was very dry.

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One day, I was talking with a resident friend who was rotating through his office when she told me a story I’ve never forgotten.

Every time a bad storm rolled through, he would sleep in his office. And it had nothing to do with him being on call or that downtown Savannah floods every time it sprinkles (at least, back then, anyway).

No. He was terrified of what would happen if the power went out. He was there to make sure the backup generator kicked on for the frozen embryos, eggs and samples stored in the lab.

In an instant, I saw him differently.

He wasn’t suddenly warmer. He was still was dry and didn’t talk much aside from giving me instructions for dosing my injections (shout out to my Follistim folks). He didn’t magically develop incredible bedside manners.

He was the exact same person I’d met before. The only thing that changed was my understanding of him.

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Writing has made me think about moments like that a lot.

Before I started writing novels, I think I assumed people were mostly who they appeared to be. If someone was quiet, they were just quiet. If someone was driven, they were just ambitious. If someone kept everyone at arm’s length, well, that was simply their personality.

Now I catch myself wondering what’s underneath. Because I’ve learned that people rarely become who they are by accident.

Somewhere along the way, life taught them something.

Someone disappointed them. Someone believed in them. Someone left. Someone stayed. And someone changed the trajectory of their life in a way no one else can see.

As writers, we spend months—sometimes years—with our characters. We know their histories. Their fears. The memories they revisit when they can’t sleep. The conversations they replay in the shower. The versions of themselves they show the world versus the versions they keep tucked away.

The funny thing is, spending that much time with fictional people has made me more curious about the real ones.

I find myself wondering what happened before the moment I’m seeing.

Why the cashier seems distracted today. Why the professor everyone describes as intimidating chose to teach in the first place. Why the coworker who never misses a deadline also never takes a vacation.

Maybe there’s an explanation. Maybe there isn’t.

But writing has taught me to be slower to assume I know the whole story.

I think that’s one of the unexpected gifts of becoming a novelist.

Yeah, I’ve learned how to structure a scene.

Yep, I’ve learned how to revise a chapter.

But more than anything, I’ve learned that understanding another person takes time.

And maybe that’s true whether they’re fictional or standing right in front of us.

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Readers often say they want “likable” characters. I don’t think that’s true. I think readers want trustworthy characters.

Those aren’t the same thing.

Some of my favorite fictional characters have made terrible decisions. They’ve lied. They’ve run away. They’ve pushed people away. They’ve made me want to yell at the page.

And yet, I never stopped rooting for them. Why? Because I trusted them. Not to always do the right thing. But to do the thing they would do.

That’s the difference.

Readers don’t need characters to be perfect. They need them to be consistent. A character can be selfish if we understand why. A character can be stubborn if it fits who they are. A character can make the wrong choice if it’s the only choice they believe they have.

The moment a character acts only because the plot needs them to—not because it’s true to who they are—that trust begins to crack.

Trust is built in small moments. It’s the promise that this person has an internal compass, even if it’s pointing in the wrong direction. And it’s seeing them wrestle with impossible choices instead of conveniently making the “correct” one. It’s watching actions line up with values, fears, and flaws.

You can see that in some of my favorite contemporary romances.

Take Alex from People We Meet on Vacation. He’s quiet, emotionally guarded, and painfully slow to admit what he wants. But every decision he makes feels rooted in who he is. Even when you want to shake him, you never doubt his heart.

Or Adam from The Love Hypothesis. On paper, he’s intimidating—a brilliant professor with a reputation that keeps people at a distance. But almost immediately, readers begin to trust him because his actions consistently reveal kindness, respect, and integrity. The rumors say one thing. His choices say another.

Then there’s Josh from Full Measures. He’s grieving, overwhelmed, and carrying responsibilities he never expected. He isn’t perfect, and he doesn’t always know what to say. But readers trust him because his love—for his family, for Ember, and for the people counting on him—shows up in his actions long before he says the words.

Or look at Chase in Pieces of the Night. Jennifer Hartmann asks readers to trust a character whose circumstances are complicated from the very beginning. That trust isn’t earned through perfection. It’s earned through vulnerability, consistency, and the quiet moments where his humanity shines through.

Even James in the Maxton Hall series earns trust in a similar way. He’s introduced with every reason for readers to write him off, yet little by little, his choices reveal someone far more layered than first impressions suggest. We don’t change our minds because the story tells us to. We change them because James does the work.

When a character changes, we don’t want them to become someone else. We want them to become more fully themselves. The best character arcs don’t erase flaws. They reveal courage. Or vulnerability. Or forgiveness. Or hope.

That’s why readers stay invested. Because they fail in ways that feel deeply, unmistakably human.

And maybe that’s the real secret. Readers don’t trust characters because they’re good. They trust them because they’re honest.

Maybe that’s why we return to our favorite books years later. We don’t remember every conversation or every plot twist. We remember how those characters made us feel. We remember believing them. And in fiction, that’s one of the greatest gifts a writer can give a reader.

Who’s a fictional character you trusted completely—even when they made all the wrong decisions?

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Like any good daughter, I called my mother as soon as I got out of the meeting.

I finally had a publication date for Emergency Contacts, and naturally, she was one of the first people I wanted to tell.

With excitement bursting out of me, I squealed: “December 7, 2027!”

Unexpectedly, there was a pause. And then, my mother—the genealogist and family historian—said something that stopped me.

“Do you know what day that is?”

Of course I knew December 7 was Pearl Harbor Day. It’s one of those dates that carries its own legacy in American history. But that wasn’t what she meant.

And then it hit me. Hard. I had completely forgotten what December 7 already meant to my family.

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A story that waited 67 years

My great-uncle disappeared during World War II when his plane went down in India.

He left behind a family who didn’t know exactly what had happened to him.

And he left behind a fiancée none of us knew existed.

Eugene was his mother’s baby, and after he disappeared, no one was allowed to bring him up around her. Eventually, that silence became part of the family. By the time my generation came along, Eugene existed mostly in obscure mentions from the people who had known him.

So when his brother, Fred, heard the news that Eugene’s plane had been found and said, “We need to tell Susan,” our natural response was that my Aunt Susan already knew.

She wasn’t the Susan he meant.

That’s how we learned Eugene had been engaged.

Her name was Susan.

And, as it turned out, that’s also how we learned why my aunt was probably named Susan.

When Eugene died, he was engaged. Her name was Susan. And for a long time, she didn’t know whether the man she loved was dead or alive. There was no body to bury. No grave to visit. No definitive answer that allowed the people who loved him to grieve and eventually move forward.

There was just uncertainty.

For 67 years.

Then, on December 7, his plane was found in India.

After more than six decades of not knowing, there was finally an answer.

And eventually, his story found its way to me.

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Until They Are Home

I wrote an article that was published in a local newspaper—a reflection of sorts about what I imagined this man to be. Susan read it and asked to see me. His fiancée sat down with me and told me their story.

She told me about the man she’d planned to marry. About their relationship. About what it was like to lose someone without ever really knowing that you’d lost him.

But she didn’t just tell me their story. She gave it to me. She had kept his letters. She’d written out the story of their relationship in her own hand.

And she put all of it inside a teapot.

Not just any teapot.

It was part of the wedding china she’d bought for the life they were supposed to have together.

I don’t know how you hold something like that in your hands and don’t understand the weight of being trusted with someone else’s story.

Somewhere between her words, his letters and that teapot, I knew one thing: I had to write it.

So I did. It became my first screenplay, a drama I called Until They Are Home.

At the time, I had absolutely no idea what I’d set in motion.

I learned screenwriting. Then I wrote another screenplay. And another. I entered competitions. I won awards. One of my scripts was eventually performed live. Another was considered for development by a major studio.

And somewhere along the way, I found my way back to novels. Back to the kind of writing I’d loved long before I knew what a screenplay even looked like.

The teapot came with me. It sits today in a cabinet with my writing trophies, Susan and Eugene’s letters still inside it.

I’ve never really thought about the irony of that until now.

The trophies represent everything that came after.

The teapot is why any of them are there in the first place.

And then came another story

Years later, I started writing about two people named Sofie Anderson and Adam Thomas.

She’s fiercely independent. He’s an ambitious medical student. They become roommates mostly because circumstances leave them little choice.

And somewhere between sharing a home and navigating all the messy parts of life, they become something neither of them planned for.

I called their story Emergency Contacts.

I rewrote it more times than I care to count.

I queried it. I got rejected. I rewrote it again.

And eventually, someone said yes.

Creative James Media wanted to publish it.

Even after I signed the contract, though, there were still pieces I didn’t know. One of the biggest was exactly when this book would stop being a file on my computer and become something readers could hold in their hands.

Well, I got my answer.

December 7, 2027.

And I didn’t even make the connection.

My mother did.

December 7

I keep thinking about how strange that is.

I mean, I didn’t choose this date. CJM didn’t know what it meant to me.

As far as everyone involved was concerned, December 7 was simply a Tuesday on the publishing calendar.

But it’s not just a Tuesday to me anymore. Because the story of a man who didn’t come home from war—and the woman who waited 67 years for an answer—is the story that brought me back to creative writing.

I couldn’t have known that when I sat down to write Until They Are Home. Nor could I have known where that screenplay would lead me or that there would eventually be writing awards sitting in a cabinet beside that teapot.

And I certainly couldn’t have known that years later, I’d write a completely different kind of story, find a publisher willing to put it into the world, and be given December 7 as its publication date.

I didn’t choose the date. Seriously, I didn’t even notice. But somehow, the story inside the teapot in my writing cabinet and the book that will make me a published author now share one.

The first story was called Until They Are Home. Eventually, it was renamed A Long Awaited Day.

I can’t help but smile at that now. Because on December 7, 2027, Emergency Contacts comes home. And I’ll become a published author—a day I’ve been waiting for since I started writing stories at thirteen.

I can’t think of a better one.

EMERGENCY CONTACTS

December 7, 2027

Preorders are expected to open fall 2027.

And now that there’s officially a date on the calendar, I suppose it’s about time I started introducing you to Adam and Sofie.

They’ve been mine for a long time.

I can’t wait for them to be yours.

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Who knew?

One of the things I’ve been figuring out lately is where different pieces of my author life belong. Some thoughts want to become essays. Some want to become eight-second jokes on TikTok. And some are apparently just me talking to a camera.

So, we’re trying something new.

What do you do when you actually have spare time?

I’m still learning this industry every day, but there are already a few things I wish someone had told me before I signed my first publishing contract.

1. People will assume your characters are based on real people.
The questions start almost immediately. “Is this your husband?” “Am I in the book?” The truth is that characters are mosaics—pieces of real life mixed with a healthy dose of imagination.

2. You’ll type “The End” over and over again.
The first draft. Revisions. Developmental edits. Copy edits. You don’t finish a book once—you finish it a dozen different ways.

3. Book covers are tiny masterpieces of strategy.
I always appreciated a beautiful cover. Now I appreciate the thinking behind every font, color, image, and layout decision. Cover designers deserve so much more credit than they get.

4. You’re building more than a book—you’re building an author brand.
Websites. Newsletters. Social media. Colors. Fonts. Bios. Suddenly, you’re introducing yourself to readers before they ever meet your characters.

5. Pitching your book might be harder than writing it.
Condensing years of work into one sentence, one paragraph, or one conversation? That’s an entirely different skill set.

6. Readers become your community.
The most surprising part of this journey has been realizing that publishing isn’t just about writing a book. It’s about connecting with people who love stories as much as you do.

If you’re a reader, what’s something you’ve always wondered about the publishing process? If you’re a writer, what surprised you most? I’d love to hear both perspectives.

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Ask someone about their favorite book, and chances are they’ll start by telling you what happened. You’ll get something like:

• “There was this huge twist.”

• “They finally kissed.”

• “The villain turned out to be...”

But keep talking long enough, and something interesting happens. They stop describing the events. They start describing how the story made them feel.

Things like:

• “I couldn’t put it down.”

• “It completely broke my heart.”

• “I laughed out loud.”

• “I cried for hours.”

• “I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

That’s the difference between plot and emotional story. Plot is what happens. Emotional story is what it means.

A plot can be summarized in a few sentences. Like: Two strangers become roommates. A detective solves a murder. A young woman inherits a farm.

Those are events.

The emotional story is something entirely different. It’s the fear of letting someone in. The hope of starting over. The grief that refuses to stay buried. The courage to trust again.

Readers rarely carry an entire plot with them for years. They carry moments. The lump in their throat. The smile they didn’t realize had spread across their face. The ache after turning the final page because they weren’t ready to say goodbye.

Those feelings are what make a story linger. As writers, it’s easy to obsess over making the plot bigger. More twists. Higher stakes. Another surprise.

But sometimes the strongest question isn’t: “What happens next?”

It’s: “How does this change the person experiencing it?”

That’s where emotional story lives. And I think that’s why contemporary romance resonates with so many readers.

Yes, people fall in love. But the stories we remember aren’t really about the first kiss. They’re about the walls that had to come down before it could happen. They’re about forgiveness. Healing. Choosing someone. Choosing yourself.

The kiss is the event.

Everything that makes us cry before it?

That’s the story.

What’s a book you still think about—not because of what happened, but because of how it made you feel?

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When people ask me what the weirdest part of becoming a published author has been, they usually expect me to say something dramatic.

Signing the contract. Seeing my name next to a publisher. Knowing my book will be on shelves.

Those moments are surreal. But they aren’t the weirdest part. The weirdest part is realizing that writing the book was only half the job.

For years, my focus was simple. Write a better sentence. Fix the chapter. Strengthen the dialogue. Cut the scene that wasn’t working.

Everything pointed inward, toward the manuscript.

Now, for the first time, I’m thinking outward. How do readers discover a new author? What should my website say in the first five seconds? What belongs in a newsletter? How do I introduce myself to someone who’s never heard my name before? What colors feel like my stories? Which fonts feel like me?

Those aren’t questions I expected to spend so much time answering. And yet they’re part of the job. Publishing isn’t just about marketing. It’s about connection. A book can’t mean something to someone if they never know it exists. That realization has completely changed the way I think about this stage of the journey.

I’m not trying to become louder. But I am trying to become clearer.

I want readers who find me to know exactly what kind of stories I tell. Stories about hope. Healing. Found family. The people behind impossible dreams.

Everything I’m building now—this newsletter, my website, my social media—is really just an invitation. No, not to buy a book. But to begin a conversation.

And hopefully, somewhere along the way, to discover a story that stays with you long after you’ve turned the last page.

If you discovered a new author today, what would make you stick around before their book even came out?

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There’s something about a walk that makes my brain kick into another gear. Today’s thought? Readers don’t buy plots. They buy promises.

Think about it. Why do we make such a big deal out of tropes? Because they’re promises.

When someone picks up a romance novel labeled forced proximity, they aren’t buying an apartment, a cabin in the woods, or one hotel room with only one bed. They’re buying the promise that two people who probably wouldn’t choose each other will have no choice but to truly see one another.

When a reader sees friends to lovers, they aren’t buying years of shared history. They’re buying the promise that love has been quietly growing beneath the surface all along.

Even enemies to lovers isn’t really about enemies. It’s the promise that first impressions don’t always tell the whole story.

Plots are what happen. Promises are why we care.

Every genre has them.

A mystery promises answers. A thriller promises danger. Fantasy promises discovery. Romance promises emotional satisfaction—not necessarily an easy journey, but one worth taking.

As writers, we spend so much time worrying about twists, world-building, and clever dialogue that it’s easy to forget the question every reader is asking before they even open Chapter One:

That promise begins long before the first page. It starts with the cover. The title. The blurb. The tropes. Even the way an author talks about their work.

Everything subtly tells a reader, “Here’s the experience you’re about to have.”

And here’s the beautiful part: A promise doesn’t spoil a story. It gives readers confidence to begin one.

For me, Emergency Contacts promises hope, healing, found family. It’s a slow-burn romance. It’s also a love letter to the people behind medicine.

The details of how Adam and Sofie get there? That’s the story. The promise is simply why I hope you’ll want to take the journey with them.

What’s your favorite trope—and what promise does it make to you?

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When I announced that Emergency Contacts would be published, one of the most common questions I received wasn’t even about the story or characters or setting. It was about what happened next on my journey.

I think that’s because most of us grow up thinking publishing looks something like this: You write a book. Someone says yes. A few months later, it’s sitting on a bookstore shelf.

I’d love nothing more sometimes than to go back to being blissfully unaware.

Signing a publishing contract isn’t the finish line. It’s the starting gate. The manuscript may be written, but the book is only beginning its journey.

From here, there are edits—oftentimes several rounds of them. Cover concepts begin to take shape. Interior formatting, proofreading, metadata, marketing plans, distribution, advance review copies, and launch preparation all happen LOOOOONG before release day.

And then there’s the part I never fully appreciated until I found myself living it.

The author.

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While a publisher is building the book, the author is building everything around it. A website. A newsletter. An online and terrifyingly public presence. You’re building relationships with readers. Creating a place where people can discover not just one story, but hopefully many stories still to come.

It’s exciting. It’s overwhelming. It’s a little surreal.

One day you’re obsessing over whether Chapter 17 needs another page on your WIP. The next you’re debating fonts, color palettes, newsletter rebrands, and how to introduce yourself to readers you’ve never met. Thankfully, I’ve already got Kiss & Tell set up. It’s the rest of it (helloooo, Instagram and TikTok) that I’m figuring out.

I’ve discovered that publishing isn’t one big milestone. It’s hundreds of small ones. Every edit. Every conversation. Every decision. Every lesson learned along the way.

Over the next year and a half, I’ll be sharing those moments here. Because I think there’s something special about letting readers see the road before we arrive at the destination.

The book will be here in early winter 2027.

Until then, welcome behind the scenes.

I’m glad you’re here.

What’s one thing you’ve always wondered about the publishing process? I’d love to answer it in a future post.

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For the past several months, Mechanics Monday has been about the craft of storytelling—character arcs, pacing, dialogue, point of view, and all the little decisions that turn an idea into a novel.

That isn’t changing.

But something else has.

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A few weeks ago, I shared that my debut novel, Emergency Contacts, will be published in early winter 2027.

That’s freaking exciting. That said, it also changed what “mechanics” means to me. Because I’ve learned something surprising over the last few weeks. Typing “The End” wasn’t the end of learning how to tell a story.

It was the beginning of learning how to share one.

Every book sits on top of hundreds of invisible decisions. Some happen on the page. How does this chapter end? Whose point of view serves the story best? Should this scene exist at all?

But once a book finds a publisher, a whole new set of mechanics appears.

You’ve got to build a website. Find your visual identity. Learn social media as an author instead of simply a person (WAAAAY harder than it looks, folks). Write newsletters. Meet readers where they already are. Learn how to talk about your work without reducing it to a sales pitch. Hell, just learning to talk about my book without feeling like I was being egotistical has been a challenge.

None of those things happen inside the manuscript. But every one of them helps a story find the people who might need it.

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The funny thing is, I’m discovering these mechanics aren’t separate from storytelling. They’re another form of it. Every Instagram post tells a story. Every newsletter tells a story. Every conversation with a reader tells a story.

But they’re also all invitations.

So Mechanics Monday is growing. We’ll still talk about writing craft. We’ll still geek out over structure, dialogue, and character arcs. But now we’ll also explore the mechanics of building an author career, finding readers, and sharing stories beyond the page.

Because the mechanics didn’t stop when I typed “The End.” They simply changed.

And I’m excited to figure them out with you.

What part of the publishing journey are you most curious about?

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They got their ending.

Turns out it looks a lot like Tuesday night.

New here or missed a day? Here’s the TOC, updated as chapters post.

Chapter One: Neve

Chapter Two: Kai

Chapter Three: Neve

Chapter Four: Kai

Chapter Five: Neve

Chapter Six: Kai

Chapter Seven: Kai

Chapter Eight: Neve

Chapter Nine: Kai

Chapter Ten: Neve

Chapter Eleven: Kai

Chapter Twelve: Kai

Chapter Thirteen: Neve

Chapter Fourteen: Neve

Chapter Fifteen: Kai

Chapter Sixteen: Neve

Chapter Seventeen: Kai

Chapter Eighteen: Neve

Chapter Nineteen: Kai

Chapter Twenty: Neve

Chapter Twenty-One: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Two: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Three: Neve

Chapter Twenty-Four: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Five: Neve

Chapter Twenty-Six: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Neve

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Kai

Chapter Thirty: Neve

Chapter Thirty-One: Kai

Chapter Thirty-Two: Neve

Chapter Thirty-Three: Neve

Chapter Thirty-Four: Neve

Chapter Thirty-Five: Kai

Chapter Thirty-Six: Neve

Epilogue: Kai

It’s raining when I finally shut off my monitor. Luckily, the restaurant isn’t far from the logistics firm where I work. I jog the last block, just because I can.

My knee still aches when the weather turns, and my shoulder will never quite forgive me. But the pain is livable. Honest in the way that it reminds me I’m still here instead of punishing me for it. I take the steps two at a time, shake the water out of my hair under the awning, and step inside.

Warmth hits first. Then light. Then the low murmur of voices that don’t know my name—and never will.

“Good evening,” the host says, smiling like he means it. “Reservation?”

“Yep,” I say, and the word still feels new enough to test on my tongue. “Table for Kai Edwards. I think my wife’s already here.”

He scrolls and nods. “She just ordered drinks for you.”

I follow him past tables filled with people mid-argument, mid-laughter, mid-date. Normal lives. Ordinary stakes. No one’s measuring exits or scanning reflections in glass. I still do it out of habit, but the urge fades quickly, overridden by the certainty that tonight, nothing is hunting us.

She’s exactly where I knew she’d be.

Neve sits near the window, one ankle tucked beneath the chair, a glass of red wine waiting across from her like she ordered it out of pure faith I’d show up eventually. Her coat is draped over the back of the chair. Hair loose. Expression unreadable until she looks up and sees me.

Then, there’s that small, devastating smile she never learned how to fake.

“You’re late,” she says with a lifted brow.

“I jogged,” I defend, sliding into the chair.

“You work in logistics,” she replies. “You’re supposed to be able to get things to places on time.”

“And yet,” I say, reaching for the glass of bourbon she ordered without asking, “I still found my way to you.”

She snorts softly, lifting her wine glass. “Barely.”

I take a sip and let myself sit back. Let the noise fade into background texture. Let the moment exist without bracing for it to end.

“You look tired,” I tell her.

She shrugs. “One of the grants I was working on got submitted. I was on the phone with the committee for two hours before they approved it.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Only two hours? I’m impressed.”

She rolls her eyes. “They wanted revisions. I wanted them to trust me. Eventually, we compromised by them trusting me.”

“That tracks,” I grin. “Terrifyingly.”

She smiles into her glass. The kind of smile that only exists when the fight is already over and won anyway.

“What’s the plan for the weekend?” she asks. “That popup market’s happening down by the river.”

“How far is that from the brewery and food trucks?” I counter.

She tilts her head, considering as she swirls her wine. “Close enough that we can pretend we went for the art.”

“And accidentally stay for the beer,” I say.

“Pure coincidence,” she agrees solemnly.

The waiter drops bread between us, and she tears a piece in half without thinking, sliding part of it onto my plate. It’s a small thing. Automatic. The kind of habit you don’t realize you’ve built until you catch yourself doing it.

“You’re smiling,” she notes.

“I know,” I say. “I keep waiting for the catch.”

She doesn’t tease me for it. She does reach across the table and rest her fingers over mine, grounding me the way she always does when my thoughts start drifting too far back.

Dinner comes. We eat. We talk about things that would’ve sounded impossibly mundane a year ago—her committee, my boss who keeps calling spreadsheets ‘living documents,’ the neighbor upstairs who waters his plants at midnight and has no ability to be quiet about it.

Halfway through, I realize something else. I’m not watching the door. I’m not clocking exits or counting reflections in the windows. I’m not cataloging threats. My body isn’t braced for impact. The old instincts are still there, but they’re quiet now. Like dogs asleep at my feet instead of straining at the leash.

Neve catches me looking at her again.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing,” I say. Then, because I promised her once not to disappear into half-truths, I add, “Just thinking about how weird it is that this feels…normal.”

She smiles. “Normal’s overrated.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “But I’m keeping it anyway.”

Outside, the rain finally lets up. Inside, the lights stay low and steady. We finish dinner, linger longer than necessary, and when we stand to leave, she slips her hand into mine.

“Ready?” she asks.

I squeeze her hand. “Always.”

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She was learning how to live with his ghost.

Then the ghost steps into the light.

New here or missed a day? Here’s the TOC, updated as chapters post.

Chapter One: Neve

Chapter Two: Kai

Chapter Three: Neve

Chapter Four: Kai

Chapter Five: Neve

Chapter Six: Kai

Chapter Seven: Kai

Chapter Eight: Neve

Chapter Nine: Kai

Chapter Ten: Neve

Chapter Eleven: Kai

Chapter Twelve: Kai

Chapter Thirteen: Neve

Chapter Fourteen: Neve

Chapter Fifteen: Kai

Chapter Sixteen: Neve

Chapter Seventeen: Kai

Chapter Eighteen: Neve

Chapter Nineteen: Kai

Chapter Twenty: Neve

Chapter Twenty-One: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Two: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Three: Neve

Chapter Twenty-Four: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Five: Neve

Chapter Twenty-Six: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Neve

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Kai

Chapter Thirty: Neve

Chapter Thirty-One: Kai

Chapter Thirty-Two: Neve

Chapter Thirty-Three: Neve

Chapter Thirty-Four: Neve

Chapter Thirty-Five: Kai

Chapter Thirty-Six: Neve

They keep telling me I need to move. Keep going. Stay on track.

And I keep telling them I’m not leaving without him.

When Kai missed the rendezvous deadline, my stomach dropped. Not all at once—slowly, like the floor giving way in sections. Manageable at first. Rational. He’s late. He rerouted. Something came up.

Then an hour passed.

Then two.

And with every hour after that, I developed new ways to drive myself insane.

My hands shake, then go numb. My scalp prickles, and I run my fingers through my hair until I finally give up and twist it into a ponytail—just to have something controlled. In my chest, it feels like a strap has been cinched tight around my lungs, making it impossible to take a full breath. I keep inhaling anyway, shallow and stubborn, like my body might eventually give in and cooperate.

It’s almost twenty-four hours later when Nikki comes in and drops a file in front of me.

“Open it,” she says, her voice shaking.

The room goes so quiet that it presses in until your ears ring.

I don’t flip through the photos so much as absorb them in fragments—motion frozen mid-violence, angles I recognize too well. Kai’s shoulder twisted wrong. Dante’s mouth open, caught in the middle of saying something I’m grateful I can’t hear. Blood on brick. On concrete. On Kai.

The one that breaks me is the last.

Kai slumped against the wall. Head tipped forward. His hand pressed to his side like pressure alone might be enough to keep himself here.

Alive, my brain insists.

Alive, because I can’t survive anything else.

“These are from Syndicate feeds,” Nikki says quietly. “Not meant to be seen outside the organization.”

I stare at the image until it starts to blur. “They have him.”

Nikki shakes her head. “They don’t. If he missed a deadline, and they don’t have him…”

I don’t finish for her. I can’t. Refuse.

I shove the folder away and give up talking.

Words feel dangerous now. So I sit there in the silent screaming of my mind, jaw locked, staring at a blank stretch of wall while my body cycles through every possible failure mode—shaking, then numb, then shaking again. My pulse feels too loud. My skin too tight.

Nikki doesn’t push.

That’s how I know this is bad.

Hours pass in pieces. I drink water when it’s placed in my hand. I nod when someone asks if I’m okay. I’m not listening to the answers because the only question that matters is the one no one will ask out loud.

Is he alive?

Time becomes something viscous. Sticky. Hard to move through. I keep expecting to hear his footsteps—measured, familiar, like my nervous system recognizes them before my brain does. Every sound outside the safehouse makes my spine go rigid. Every silence feels like confirmation.

At some point, Nikki sits across from me on the floor.

“They would’ve used it,” she says quietly.

“Used what?” My voice sounds wrong. Too flat.

“A body,” she explains. “If they had him. Publicly or privately. They would’ve made sure you knew.”

I don’t look at her. “Unless they want me to wait.”

“Yes,” she says. “Unless that’s the point.”

The tremor in my body fades into something softer, colder, crueler. I don’t eat. I don’t sleep. And when they try to get me to move as morning bleeds into the sky, I go with a numbness I haven’t felt since the first time he left.

Back then, it was protection. Now, it feels like something else.

I move when they tell me to move. I shower because Nikki stands in the doorway and refuses to leave until I do. I change clothes because the ones I’m wearing smell like fear and sweat and the ghost of his arm around my waist. I function in the most technical sense of the word—muscle memory carrying me through motions my mind has checked out of.

The numbness is worse than panic.

Panic at least burns. This is frostbite.

By noon, the news cycle has found a rhythm it likes. Syndicate power vacuum. Internal fracture. Unconfirmed casualties. A known enforcer—Dante—dead at the scene. Another individual presumed deceased after sustaining multiple stab wounds and a gunshot, body not recovered.

Presumed.

I turn the sound off, but the words keep looping anyway.

Multiple.

Gunshot.

Not recovered.

“Neve,” Nikki says carefully, like she’s approaching a cornered animal.

I don’t answer.

Helen disappears from the conversation entirely by evening. No statements. No sightings. No intermediaries reaching out. The woman who once pulled entire cities by their strings has gone silent.

She’s lost leverage.

I should feel victorious.

Instead, I feel hollowed out.

Eventually, Nikki leaves altogether, and I’m alone in the new life I was supposed to live with him. Only then do I break.

It isn’t dramatic.

There’s no scream. No collapse to the floor. No cinematic moment where grief announces itself and gives me something solid to fight against. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the wall for a long time, like if I look hard enough it might explain how a future can vanish without anyone hearing it tear.

Then my chest caves in.

The sound that comes out of me is wrong—too raw, too animal, like my body is trying to claw something back that’s already gone. I fold forward, hands braced on my knees, breath stuttering in shallow, useless pulls that don’t go anywhere near my lungs. My vision clouds until the room tilts, edges smearing like wet ink.

“He promised,” I whisper to the empty room.

It sounds ridiculous out loud. But Kai didn’t promise lightly. He promised like a man who already knew what it would cost him and decided it was worth it anyway.

I slide off the bed and sit on the floor, my back against the mattress, knees drawn up because everything hurts and I don’t know where else to put the pain. My hands shake as they come up to my face, and when I finally let myself cry, it feels like something inside me finally splits open all the way.

I cry for the boy who caught my wrist in a hallway and called me Terminator with affection. For the man who learned how to kill so other people wouldn’t have to. For the way he held me like I was something precious even when the world taught him not to believe in that kind of thing.

I cry for the future we planned like it was a forgone conclusion. Fake names. Boring places. The audacity of thinking we were allowed to survive.

At some point, my throat goes raw and my head aches and my body slows. The sobs turn into shudders. The shudders shift into exhaustion so deep it feels like gravity finally remembered me.

I stay there, curled against the bed, staring at the slice of shadow on the wall that looks like his shoulder used to when he leaned in the doorway watching me pretend not to notice.

“I waited,” I tell the room softly. “I didn’t run.”

The words hang there, unanswered.

Outside, life keeps moving. Somewhere, people are eating dinner. Laughing. Making plans they assume will still exist tomorrow.

And here I am, learning the shape of a world where Kai doesn’t walk back through the door.

Not a triumph. Not justice.

Just the cost of loving someone in a life that doesn’t forgive it.

I want to call Jamie. I want to talk to Bentley.

I can’t do either while Bentley’s supposed to be grieving me and Jamie thinks I’m actually dead. The thought makes me sick now that I’m living with the reality alone.

The back yard becomes the only place I can tolerate. It’s bordering peace that my body isn’t capable of feeling.

I’m laying on the grass looking at the stars with a bottle of whiskey propped against me. The grass is cold through my clothes, damp enough that it seeps in slowly, like it’s trying to claim me by degrees. I don’t bother moving.

The stars are indifferent. Bright pinpricks scattered across a sky that has never once cared who lived or died underneath it. I stare at them, tracing shapes I learned as a kid, names I half remember. Orion. Cassiopeia. Stories meant to make chaos feel intentional.

The front door opens and closes, but I don’t bother looking. The answers for the psych evaluation known as Nikki’s daily check-in starts rattling off immediately.

“Yes, I’m breathing. No, I’m not self-harming other than self-medicating with whiskey. No, I’m not a harm to others. Yes, I ate something. Yes, I showered. No, I’m not what you’d call sober. And for the last time, no I don’t want to relocate to wherever my mother is.”

I pause long enough to take another swallow, the bottle clinking softly against my teeth. Footsteps come closer, and I close my eyes and remind myself to breathe. A small tear falls as soon as I do.

“Please just go,” I say. The stupid tremble in my lips makes my voice shake. “I’m not in the mood for visitors tonight, okay?”

When I don’t get an answer, I sit up and wipe my face with the sleeves of my hoodie—Kai’s that I found in the bag that still smells like him.

“Seriously,” I add hoarsely. “I can’t do another conversation where someone tells me to be strong.”

Still nothing.

I open my eyes.

Bentley stands at the edge of the yard, barely outlined by the porch light.

“The hell are you doing here?” I ask him, standing up with a small sway that betrays just why the bottle of whiskey’s empty.

“Had to drop off a house-warming present for you before I go back undercover with Nikki,” he says.

That checks out. His new cover is my old seat with Nikki as his wife.

“God, it better not be something I have to take care of,’ I mutter, capping the whiskey bottle. “Nikki wants me to get a dog or something.”

Bentley snorts, but it comes out rough. “Relax. You’re not ready for anything with a pulse.”

I take a step toward him, irritation cutting through the fog just enough to improve my balance marginally. “Then what—”

He shifts. Just half a step to the left. And the world drops out from under me. Because there’s someone behind him.

It’s Kai. His arm’s in a sling. His shirt outlines bandages underneath. His eyes, though, they’re on me.

For one ridiculous second, my brain refuses to cooperate. Because this version of him doesn’t match the photos burned into my skull.

He’s standing. Barely—but standing. Alive in a way that feels aggressive after the week I’ve had.

“Kai?” I ask.

Because I need confirmation that I’m not crazy. His mouth twitches at the corner.

“I’m late,” he says, taking a step toward me.

I don’t think. I don’t weigh options or dignity or the fact that I’m barefoot in the grass and half-drunk and shaking apart at the seams.

I just run.

The bottle drops. I hear it hit the ground somewhere behind me, glass on dirt, but it might as well be another universe. My feet slip on the damp grass, lungs burning, vision tunneling as if my body has decided this is either a miracle or a hallucination and I need to test it at full speed.

“Kai!” I say right before I get to him.

He barely has time to brace before I crash into his chest like I’m trying to fuse myself there, arms wrapping around him, momentum knocking us both a step back. He grunts—pain, surprise—but he doesn’t let go. His good arm comes around me hard, holding me, while the injured one stays rigid at his side.

I feel it then. The heat. The solid, undeniable resistance of a living body.

“Oh my god,” I sob, burying my face into his shoulder. “Oh my god, oh my god—”

“Hey,” he breathes, voice breaking just enough to ruin me completely. “Easy. I made it.”

I shake my head violently against him, fingers clawing into his shirt. “No. No, you don’t get to say that. You don’t get to—do you have any idea what I—”

“I know,” he says quickly, forehead dropping to the top of my head. I feel him wince as he moves. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

I pull back just enough to look at him, hands on his face, forcing him into focus. He’s pale under the porch light. Bruised. Split lip. Shadows under his eyes so deep they look carved in. The sling. The bandages.

“You were dead,” I say, my voice coming out thin and furious. “They showed me pictures. I watched the news. I—”

“I know,” he says, softer now. “Bentley told me. You waited.”

My knees buckle, the strength leaving me all at once, and this time he can’t catch me alone. Bentley’s there suddenly, steadying both of us as Kai tightens his hold and refuses to let me go.

“I didn’t leave,” I choke. “I stayed. Even when Nikki told me—when she said they might’ve—”

Kai makes a sound low in his throat, something like pain and gratitude colliding. He leans his forehead against mine, eyes shut tight.

“You did exactly what you promised,” he says. “I broke mine.”

I’m not listening anymore. I pull him down, clumsily connecting my mouth with his.

I’m not gentle. I don’t ask. I don’t think. I kiss him like I need proof as my mouth crashes into his, messy and desperate, teeth knocking, breath tangling. For half a heartbeat he freezes with the calculation of pain and balance and whether his body will hold.

Then he gives in. His good hand slides up into my hair, fingers curling tight like he’s afraid this is another thing that might vanish if he doesn’t hold it. The kiss deepens immediately, raw and unfiltered, all the restraint burned off by a week of believing this moment would never exist.

He makes a broken sound against my mouth—half groan, half sob—and I feel it all the way down my spine. His injured side bumps against me and he hisses, the sound loud enough that I pull back an inch without thinking, hands already skimming his chest, his ribs, checking.

“I’m sorry,” I breathe. “I forgot—”

“Don’t,” he says immediately, forehead dropping to mine again. His breath is shaky now, uneven. “Don’t stop. Just—slow.”

I nod, even though my body is still vibrating, and kiss him again—this time softer, still fierce but careful. My hands slide into his jacket, gripping fabric instead of skin, reminding myself of the fact that he’s here, solid, warm, alive. His lips move against mine with a tenderness that nearly ruins me, like every second he was gone taught him how fragile this is. Eventually, he rests his forehead against mine, eyes still closed, and I feel his breath shudder out of him.

“I’m here,” he murmurs. “I’m here, Neve.”

I swallow hard, my hands still fisted in his clothes. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again.”

A faint, exhausted smile slants his mouth. “I’ll do my best.”

I press my face into his neck, right where his pulse beats, and let myself shake while he holds me like he’s been waiting to do exactly this since the moment he went down.

For the first time in ten years, the world stops ending.

The last thing Bentley says is, “She’s safe.”

The last thing Kai does is believe him.

New here or missed a day? Here’s the TOC, updated as chapters post.

Chapter One: Neve

Chapter Two: Kai

Chapter Three: Neve

Chapter Four: Kai

Chapter Five: Neve

Chapter Six: Kai

Chapter Seven: Kai

Chapter Eight: Neve

Chapter Nine: Kai

Chapter Ten: Neve

Chapter Eleven: Kai

Chapter Twelve: Kai

Chapter Thirteen: Neve

Chapter Fourteen: Neve

Chapter Fifteen: Kai

Chapter Sixteen: Neve

Chapter Seventeen: Kai

Chapter Eighteen: Neve

Chapter Nineteen: Kai

Chapter Twenty: Neve

Chapter Twenty-One: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Two: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Three: Neve

Chapter Twenty-Four: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Five: Neve

Chapter Twenty-Six: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Neve

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Kai

Chapter Thirty: Neve

Chapter Thirty-One: Kai

Chapter Thirty-Two: Neve

Chapter Thirty-Three: Neve

Chapter Thirty-Four: Neve

Chapter Thirty-Five: Kai

The van door slams. And that sound is the line.

Everything before it was restraint. Calculation. Hope this could end without becoming what I was trained to be.

Everything after it is survival.

Dante’s smile dies the second the van peels away. He looks at me like he finally understands the mistake he made.

“She chose you over bloodlines,” he says, adjusting his grip on the knife. “Carlos would’ve called that weak.”

I don’t answer.

I step into him instead.

He slashes low. I take it on my forearm—shallow but burning—because distance is death and I won’t give him any. I drive my shoulder into his sternum and we crash into the brick wall hard enough to rattle teeth. The knife clatters but he’s already swinging—elbow, head, knee.

He’s like every rich kid who thinks being trained in a controlled environment by a tutor will protect him when it really counts. I never had that luxury. Not growing up. Not in the desert.

I pivot inside his next swing and drive my forearm up under his chin. He staggers, recovers fast, snarling as he comes back at me with a wild hook—sloppy, angry, dangerous only because he doesn’t care what it costs him.

“You remember her soft and innocent,” he pants, circling. “But you didn’t get to watch her change.”

That draws a flinch I can’t fight.

“That’s right,” Dante says, breath ragged, eyes bright with it. “You weren’t there. You left. You missed the part where she stopped being soft and started being useful.”

I move before he can finish the sentence.

I drive forward, crowding him, my forehead slamming into his nose. Cartilage gives with a wet crack. He howls, stumbles, but he’s laughing even as blood pours down his mouth.

“She learned fast,” he spits, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “How to take physical pain. Carlos told me everything he did. Let me help plan it since she’d be in my bed when it was all done.”

He lunges when I glare at him, getting his arms in a lucky position. For half a second, he’s got leverage.

That’s the mistake.

He thinks anger makes me reckless. Thinks mentioning her body, her childhood, her survival will make me sloppy.

It doesn’t. It makes me efficient.

I drop my weight and twist, breaking his grip before it settles. My elbow drives back into his ribs—once, twice—until I feel something give. He grunts, staggers, but he’s grinning through it, teeth red.

“Look at you,” he breathes. “Carlos was right. You’re just another weapon she points.”

“Yeah,” I pant. “But at least she keeps me.”

Something in Dante’s grin fractures into sweet jealousy. The kind that curdles when someone realizes they were never an option.

He surges forward anyway, tackling me.

We hit the ground hard, concrete biting into my spine. His weight slams the air out of my lungs and for a split second all I can taste is dust and blood and the copper-bright edge of rage. He’s strong—stronger than he should be—but it’s sloppy strength. Desperation. He’s already lost. He just doesn’t know it yet.

We roll. My shoulder screams where the blade kissed it earlier, but I keep my base, knees driving, hips turning. He gets an arm under my throat, forearm crushing down.

“She cried the first time,” he pants into my ear. “But she learned real quick nobody was coming to save her.”

The world narrows.

Not red. Not black.

Clear.

I shift my chin just enough to breathe and slam my forehead back into his face. He yelps, grip loosening. I capitalize instantly—hook his arm, bridge, roll us again so I’m on top.

He bucks. Reaches.

I catch the glint of the knife just before he drives it into my side.

It doesn’t land too deep, but also not clean. A hot, sickening pressure blooms into fire as he twists it with a sound like he’s opening a door he’s waited years to unlock. My body jerks on instinct, a grunt tearing out of me before I can stop it.

He grins in my face, breath sour with blood. “There it is.”

Pain is loud. But it’s also honest.

I grab his wrist before he can pull the blade free and make it worse. My hands are slick now—blood on blood—but I don’t loosen my grip. I head-butt him again. Harder this time.

Bone cracks. His nose caves with a wet sound and he howls, jerking back just enough for me to wrench the knife sideways and out of my body. The sudden absence is worse than the wound—white heat, nausea, the ground tilting under me—but I use it.

I drive the pommel into his throat.

Once.

Twice.

He gags, hands flying up, eyes wild now—not taunting. Not proud. Just animal panic.

I don’t give him space.

I surge forward, pinning him with my weight, forearm crushing his windpipe against the concrete. He claws at me, nails scraping skin, heel slamming into my already ruined side.

“You don’t get to say her name,” I snarl, voice shaking despite everything I’m holding back. “You don’t get to touch her life.”

His hand fumbles at his jacket.

Gun.

The realization hits a split second before the sound.

The shot is deafening in the alley.

The impact punches through me like a freight train, just below my collarbone this time. My vision goes white, then grainy, like an old TV losing signal. My body locks up, nerves screaming as if they’ve all decided to go at once.

I stay on him.

Pure refusal.

I tear the gun from his grip and fling it away, then grab his head and slam it into the concrete—again, and again—until the resistance goes slack beneath my hands.

When I finally pull back, he’s not moving.

Not breathing.

The fight drains out of the world all at once.

I stagger back, try to stand. Fail.

My legs fold and I hit the wall hard, sliding down it until I’m sitting in my own blood, chest burning, breath coming in wet, uneven pulls. My hands shake when I press them to the wounds. There’s too much red. Everywhere.

Footsteps pound toward me.

“Kai—fuck—Kai!”

Bentley drops into my field of vision, already bleeding himself, eyes blown wide as he grabs my shoulders to keep me upright.

“Stay with me,” he orders, voice cracking at the edges. “Don’t you dare.”

I try to answer. Can’t.

“She’s gone,” he says fast, like he knows exactly what I need to hear. “Van got out. She’s safe.”

Good, I tell myself.

Sirens scream closer now, echoing off brick and steel. Bentley hauls me up, my arm over his shoulders, dragging me step by step away from the body cooling behind us.

“If you die,” he growls in my ear, fear breaking through the anger, “she loses everything. So don’t.”

The sirens blur into noise. The alley tilts. Bentley’s voice turns into pressure more than sound. My body is just a problem he’s solving now—weight, blood, angles—but my mind slips free of it.

All I can do is hold on to her.

Neve at twelve, standing in a hallway like she’d already decided the world didn’t get to push her around. Neve at sixteen, chin up, daring anyone to try. Neve in the back of a truck under a blanket of stars, asking me what she was to me like the answer wouldn’t ruin us both. Neve yesterday morning, half asleep, mouth warm against mine, trusting me enough to close her eyes.

Her laugh. Loud. Unapologetic. The way she looks at me like I’m not a weapon or a shield—but a choice she’d make again and again.

I cling to that. Because if I let go of the memories, the pain gets louder. If I stop remembering her, then Dante wins something he doesn’t deserve.

Bentley stumbles. Catches himself. Keeps dragging me.

“Stay with me, asshole,” he mutters, more to himself than to me now.

I try. I really do. But the edges of the world are dimming, tunneling down to one point of light that I know isn’t real but reach for it anyway—and it’s Neve, standing there, steady and furious and alive.

That’s where I aim myself.

That’s where I fall.

Love isn’t always staying.

Sometimes it’s walking away so the person you love can do what you cannot.

New here or missed a day? Here’s the TOC, updated as chapters post.

Chapter One: Neve

Chapter Two: Kai

Chapter Three: Neve

Chapter Four: Kai

Chapter Five: Neve

Chapter Six: Kai

Chapter Seven: Kai

Chapter Eight: Neve

Chapter Nine: Kai

Chapter Ten: Neve

Chapter Eleven: Kai

Chapter Twelve: Kai

Chapter Thirteen: Neve

Chapter Fourteen: Neve

Chapter Fifteen: Kai

Chapter Sixteen: Neve

Chapter Seventeen: Kai

Chapter Eighteen: Neve

Chapter Nineteen: Kai

Chapter Twenty: Neve

Chapter Twenty-One: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Two: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Three: Neve

Chapter Twenty-Four: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Five: Neve

Chapter Twenty-Six: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Neve

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Kai

Chapter Thirty: Neve

Chapter Thirty-One: Kai

Chapter Thirty-Two: Neve

Chapter Thirty-Three: Neve

Chapter Thirty-Four: Neve

The last time I was coming into this room, I was in a designer dress and heels that felt more like weapons than accessories, with a date who was more convenient than coveted. Now, I’m here in leggings and a sweatshirt, my shoulder brushing against the man I’ve loved since I was twelve and didn’t know what to call it.

Kai’s hand brushes my elbow in a silent check-in as he opens the door for me.

“Welcome to Gino’s,” the hostess greets us. “Unfortunately, we’re closed for a private event.”

I nod but don’t acknowledge her as I move past the stand.

“Ma’am,” she calls after me.

Kai gives her a look.

She retreats.

The room opens up all at once—low ceilings, long tables, red cloths stretched tight like they’re trying to keep secrets from spilling out. The smell hits next: garlic, wine, oil, and the faint metallic note of violence everyone pretends isn’t permanent.

Family-only. No weapons allowed.

A lie everyone here tells themselves so they can sleep.

I look around the table, spotting the familiar faces of my father’s associates—men who came to my birthday parties growing up with guns in their jackets and stuffed animals in boxes. The table turns the second I cross the threshold.

“Gentlemen,” I say flatly as I take my father’s seat.

Dante’s not here, which means Bentley’s successfully stalled him.

I motion for Kai to take Dante’s seat beside me. When he does, the room gasps.

The sound is soft, collective. Disbelief dressed up as offense.

Harry’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth. Someone on the far end crosses himself like Kai’s presence just broke a sacred rule. A few of them look at me like I’ve finally lost whatever mind they pretended I had left.

“Sit,” I tell him, quieter this time.

Kai does. Smooth. Unapologetic. His knee brushes mine under the table.

Harry clears his throat. “Neve, this is a—”

“Family dinner,” I finish for him, eyes locked on his. “I’ll assume my invitation was lost in the mail, considering the number of hits that have been put out on me. Certainly, the gentlemen who watched Carlos Hill’s daughter grow up would want revenge for someone going after one of their own.”

A few of them shift at that. Not guilt. Calculation.

Harry’s mouth tightens. “You don’t accuse this table lightly.”

“I don’t do anything lightly,” I say. “Especially not betrayal.”

The word drops into the room like a live wire.

I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to. Silence bends toward me the way it always has when I decide it’s done waiting.

“Last time I was here, you tasked me with something,” I tell him, leaning so I can take his glass of whiskey. I take a sip, setting it in front of me. I ignore the fact that Kai’s mouth is curving into a smirk as he watches me. “That I would earn my seat at the table when I found out who the mole in our organization is.”

Harry’s eyes flick to the glass, then back to me. “And you think you have an answer.”

I cut my eyes to his. “I’m not one of your men, Harry,” I remind him. “I don’t waste time and breath on accusations. I only speak in facts.”

The room stills. Not silence—attention. The kind that tightens around your throat if you don’t know how to breathe inside it.

Harry studies me like he’s recalculating something he thought was settled. “Then say it.”

I don’t rush. I don’t look around. I don’t soften it.

“You’ll notice one of our associates is missing from the table,” I point out.

“Dante’s running late,” one of them says.

I nod, downing the whiskey in one pull. “Because my head of security is detaining him for questioning.”

A ripple moves through the room—chairs shifting, shoulders squaring, men clocking exits they pretended not to need.

Harry’s gaze sharpens. “On whose authority?”

I set the empty glass down carefully. “Mine.”

That gets me reactions. Not outrage—interest. Power recognizes power even when it doesn’t like the shape it comes in.

I toss the bug out onto the table. Empty, but they won’t get to discover that.

“Your evidence,” I tell them. “I put a bug in Dante’s house the night of the gala. You’ll find enough on there to tell you exactly what I know. He’s been feeding the feds every route and calculated risk we’ve been running. And you should all be thanking my accomplice here”—I nod to Kai—“for his cooperation in cracking it on the federal end.”

The word feds detonates quieter than a bomb—but it’s just as effective.

Someone swears. Someone else laughs sharp and disbelieving. A chair scrapes back hard enough to scream against tile.

Harry doesn’t move. That’s how I know he’s taking this seriously.

“You’re telling me,” he says slowly, “that Dante’s been bleeding us to the government.”

“I’m telling you he’s been selling control,” I correct. “The feds were just the highest bidder this quarter.”

Kai doesn’t react. Doesn’t preen. Doesn’t posture. He lets my words do the work, lets the implication sink its teeth in. That alone tells the table more than any show of force ever could.

Harry’s eyes flick to the device on the table. Then to me. “You planted that without permission.”

“I planted it without knowledge,” I say. “Permission implies I was asking.”

The room tightens.

“And if we find nothing?” someone challenges.

“You won’t,” I reply. “But if you do—then I’ll accept whatever judgment you decide I’ve earned for wasting your time.”

Harry studies my face. Searching for cracks.

“You came in here prepared to burn bridges,” he says.

“No,” I correct softly. “I came in here to stop a fire before it took us all.”

That’s when the shouting starts.

Dante’s name gets thrown like a weapon. Old loyalties surface. Old debts. Old fears. The room fractures into arguments layered over arguments—exactly the chaos betrayal needs to hide in.

I watch the back wall. Because timing matters.

The explosion doesn’t announce itself with drama. It’s brutal. Immediate.

The far end of the room blows inward in a concussive roar that lifts the floor beneath my feet and turns the air into knives. Heat slams into my chest. Glass screams as it shatters. Fire alarms erupt—shrill, panicked, useless.

Smoke pours in, thick and choking.

The room erupts.

Shouting. Bodies hitting the floor. Someone screaming a name that won’t be answered.

Kai’s hand clamps around my wrist.

“Now,” he says.

We move exactly as planned.

I grab the bug and toss it into the flames. He snags two cloth napkins and throws water on them, handing me one while he takes the other. I press the wet napkin to my mouth and nose, breathe shallow through fabric and instinct. The smell is wrong—burning oil and metal and something organic I refuse to name.

“Eyes on me,” Kai orders, already moving.

We drop low. Chairs are overturned, bodies scrambling, some frozen in shock. The ceiling groans like it’s deciding whether to cave. Another blast rattles the windows—not inside, but close enough to shove urgency down my spine.

We don’t run straight.

We cut right. Then left. Then straight through the service corridor no one ever notices because it smells like dishwater, bleach, and insignificance. Kai kicks the door at the end and it bursts open into the alley like a held breath finally released.

Cold air. Sirens. Shouts behind us.

We’re gone before anyone thinks to follow.

I drop my napkin into the dumpster and take off the sweatshirt. Kai loses his jacket and throws his arm around me.

We move like we’re coming back from a date, and I lean my head into his shoulder.

“Almost there,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.

The street opens up ahead of us—too normal. Neon buzzing. Someone laughing on a patio like the world didn’t just fracture three blocks over.

I let my breath hitch into something that could pass for amusement. Kai adjusts instantly, slowing us just enough, his arm firm and familiar around my shoulders. Anyone looking would see a couple ducking out early. Not targets. Not survivors.

The van waits where it’s supposed to. Engine idling. Hazards off. Invisible.

I’m reaching for the handle when my name cuts through the noise.

“Neve.”

I feel Kai tense before I see Dante. He’s half-stumbling out of the alley mouth, blood darkening his sleeve, eyes locked on me with the kind of focus that doesn’t miss twice. There’s a knife in his hand—not steady, but aimed.

“You really thought you could do this,” he snarls, taking another step. “Stand there like a queen and hand me over?”

Kai shifts, putting himself between us without breaking stride. His voice is calm in a way that makes my skin prickle.

“Get in the van.”

“Not without you,” I tell him, grabbing his wrist.

Kai doesn’t look at me. He keeps his eyes trained on Dante, who laughs—ragged, bright with adrenaline and betrayal.

“Always over a bitch,” he spits out. “I knew to watch you instead of the table.”

He takes another step forward. Too close now. Knife low, angled, the way someone holds it when they know exactly where they want to put it.

Dante lunges for me, but Kai moves just as fast.

One second Dante’s weight is shifting forward—rage sloppy, desperate—and the next Kai is there. Steel and timing and violence so precise it almost doesn’t register as movement. His forearm slams into Dante’s chest, knocking him off balance, forcing the knife wide. Metal flashes. The blade skids past Kai’s ribs instead of sinking where it was meant to.

Kai plants himself fully between us now.

I stagger back a step, heart punching against my ribs, every instinct screaming his name.

“Neve—move,” Kai snaps, sharper now.

Dante recovers fast. Too fast. He grins like this is what he’s been waiting for. “See?” he says breathlessly. “You won’t do it. You never do. Not when she’s watching.”

He circles, bleeding, feral, knife steady again. Kai doesn’t mirror him. He doesn’t posture. He doesn’t threaten.

He glances at me—just once.

And in that look, I see the math finish calculating.

“If you stay,” he says, “he lives.”

I understand immediately.

If I stay, Kai will hold back. He’ll try to end this without crossing the line he can’t come back from. He’ll gamble on control. On restraint. On mercy that Dante has already proven he doesn’t deserve.

And Dante will keep coming.

Today. Tomorrow. From a distance. From the dark.

There will never be an end.

Dante laughs, wild and triumphant. “Hear that? He won’t—”

“Get in the van,” Kai says again. No heat. No anger. Just command.

I shake my head once. “Kai—”

He cuts me off, voice low, urgent. “If you love me, get in the van.”

That’s the moment it breaks clean instead of tearing.

I see it then—not the fight, not the blood—but the future if I hesitate. Endless. Hunting. Looking over our shoulders until one of us slips.

I step back.

Kai doesn’t look at me again. Dante’s smile falters when he sees it—when he realizes what I’m choosing.

I release Kai’s wrist.

I turn. I get in the van.

The door slams shut—loud and final—sealing me off from the alley, the knife, the man who just signed his own death warrant. The engine roars to life. Tires scream as the van lurches forward, momentum throwing me back against the seat.

First, they die.

Then, they live.

New here or missed a day? Here’s the TOC, updated as chapters post.

Chapter One: Neve

Chapter Two: Kai

Chapter Three: Neve

Chapter Four: Kai

Chapter Five: Neve

Chapter Six: Kai

Chapter Seven: Kai

Chapter Eight: Neve

Chapter Nine: Kai

Chapter Ten: Neve

Chapter Eleven: Kai

Chapter Twelve: Kai

Chapter Thirteen: Neve

Chapter Fourteen: Neve

Chapter Fifteen: Kai

Chapter Sixteen: Neve

Chapter Seventeen: Kai

Chapter Eighteen: Neve

Chapter Nineteen: Kai

Chapter Twenty: Neve

Chapter Twenty-One: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Two: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Three: Neve

Chapter Twenty-Four: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Five: Neve

Chapter Twenty-Six: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Neve

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Kai

Chapter Thirty: Neve

Chapter Thirty-One: Kai

Chapter Thirty-Two: Neve

Chapter Thirty-Three: Neve

We don’t stop running until the city swallows us.

Nikki doesn’t pick somewhere dramatic. No abandoned warehouses or cinematic rooftops. She ducks us into the kind of place you only notice if you’re looking for exits—a short-term rental tucked above a closed nail salon, the stairwell reeking of acetone and old mop water. She locks the door behind us, deadbolts it, then leans her forehead briefly against the wood like she’s counting something internal back into place.

Only then does she look at me.

“You good?” she asks.

I laugh once. It’s not humor—it’s pressure venting. “Peachy.”

She nods like that’s fair and motions me toward the couch. “Sit before you fall.”

I do. My stitches throb like they’re offended I had the audacity to survive again. Nikki disappears into the kitchenette and comes back with water and something wrapped in gauze.

“Pressure,” she says. “Not pretty. Effective.”

I take it, press it to my side, and breathe through the burn.

Silence stretches. Thick. Expectant.

“How much do you know?” I ask her.

She sits across from me, elbows on her knees, hands clasped. No tablet. No mask.

“Okay,” Nikki says. “Then here’s the part Helen never planned for.”

She exhales.

“She’s been shaping outcomes since before you were old enough to notice patterns. She placed people. Removed people. Redirected trajectories like chess pieces she never bothered to name.”

I watch her mouth move. Try not to picture my life as a flowchart.

“When your mom left, Helen knew she needed leverage to make sure you didn’t die just because you were a girl,” Nikki starts. “Bentley’s birth gave her the perfect opportunity. When his mom was killed by the Syndicate, Helen hid him from everyone. He was trained early on unofficially. He never knew you were related until Helen wanted him to know.”

I hiss when I adjust my grip on the gauze.

“So Bentley was a convenient plant?” I ask.

“Bentley was her apology for taking Kai away,” she explains.

“How does Kai fit into this?”

Nikki doesn’t answer right away. She watches my face instead—measuring how much truth I can take without it turning corrosive.

“Kai was in your orbit long before Helen picked him,” she says.“Helen tested him in subtle ways. Athletic ability. Cognitive tests. She pulled strings to get him the perfect mentors. And it was all because you both noticed each other.”

I lower my brows. “We met in sixth grade.”

She nods. “She watched you two for three years before she made the decision.”

“Three years,” I repeat.

Nikki bites her lip but keeps going. “She doesn’t rush decisions like that. She studies patterns until she’s certain they won’t change.”

Something cold slides down my spine.

“So she didn’t just pick him,” I say slowly.

“Yes.”

“So she waited because of me.”

Nikki doesn’t soften it. “Because of the way you attached to him.”

“So everything he’s been through hasn’t even been his choice? It’s just because he had a crush on me?”

She shakes her head. “It’s because he’s loved you longer than either of you realize.”

I swallow, my throat tight. “That doesn’t answer the part where his whole life got hijacked.”

Nikki leans forward, elbows on her knees. Her voice stays steady—careful, but not gentle in a way that insults me.

“Helen opened doors,” she says. “She applied pressure. She made paths available. But Kai still walked them.”

“So he chose it,” I say.

“Yes,” Nikki answers immediately. “It had nothing to do with him chasing you. He’s the kind of person who runs toward danger when he thinks it’ll keep other people safe.”

I think of him at twelve—hand locked around my wrist, calm in the middle of chaos. Not afraid of the consequences of being near me.

“Helen didn’t force him,” Nikki continues. “She recognized him and leveraged the parts that were already there.”

My jaw tightens. “That sounds like a pretty way to excuse grooming.”

“It’s not an excuse,” Nikki says. “It’s the distinction between coercion and exploitation. She didn’t manufacture his instincts. She weaponized them.”

I stare at the wall for a long second.

“So when he left,” I say quietly, “when he disappeared from my life—”

“That was your dad,” she cuts in. “Helen was going to leave him with you. But your dad didn’t like how noble and uncontrollable he was.”

I close my eyes.

Sixth grade lockers. A hand on my wrist. A boy who didn’t look afraid of my last name.

When he vanished, I told myself it was normal. That people leave. That good things don’t stick.

I open my eyes again. “So Kai didn’t disappear because he chose the machine.”

“No,” Nikki says. “He disappeared because your father was afraid of him.”

That truth settles deeper than the others. Not because it’s louder—but because it explains everything.

Carlos Hill didn’t fear Kai’s strength. He feared his conscience.

“And Bentley,” I murmur.

Nikki’s mouth tightens. “Bentley was what Helen thought you needed when she couldn’t give you Kai back.”

Sirens scream in the distance, and both of our heads swivel in their direction. I resist the urge to look out the windows. I stand, heading for the back room that overlooks a fire escape and a building without a window on this floor.

I sit on the edge of the bed, fighting off the picture in my head of every worst case scenario where I just want Kai’s arms around me. Slowly, I lean into the mattress and sink into the pillow. But I don’t relax. I don’t catch a full breath.

Not until I hear the door open. Muffled voices drift down the hall—low, clipped, controlled. The kind of voices that belong to people who are still in motion even when they stop moving. I don’t need to hear the words to know who they belong to.

My chest loosens just enough to hurt when I hear Kai’s voice.

I sit up slowly, careful of my side, pulse still ticking too fast beneath my skin. The mattress creaks softly under me, loud in the quiet room. I hate that I notice things like that. Hate that part of me is still cataloging sounds and exits and angles when all I want to do is fold in on myself.

Footsteps approach.

The door opens, and Kai fills the frame.

He scans me in half a second—posture, breathing, color, the way I’m sitting too upright for someone who’s supposed to be resting. His shoulders drop only after his eyes find mine and stay there.

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod once. “I am now.”

Something shifts in his face at that. Relief, sharpened into resolve.

Behind him, Bentley leans against the wall, running a hand over his jaw, light catching enough for me to see the blood on his knuckles. Nikki stands closer than she needs to, one hand still curled in the fabric of his jacket like she forgot to let go.

Kai shifts his weight, glancing behind him.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Turns out you’re not the only Hill with bad timing and worse judgment.”

I bite back a grin. “Wow. Family resemblance really is a bitch.”

Bentley huffs a humorless laugh. Nikki rolls her eyes but doesn’t move her hand from his jacket.

Kai steps fully into the room and closes the door behind him. The click sounds louder than it should, like punctuation.

“They didn’t follow us,” Bentley says. “We doubled back twice. Clean exit.”

“Too clean,” Nikki adds. “Helen didn’t send that team. Which means she’s either lost control—or she’s letting someone else think they have it.”

“Either way,” I say, easing myself back against the edge of the bed, “she just made her intentions very clear.”

Kai’s eyes stay on me while the others talk, tracking the way I shift my weight, the faint hitch in my breath I don’t bother hiding. He waits until there’s a natural pause before speaking.

“We need to assume she’s done trying to manage this quietly,” he says. “Which puts all of you at risk.”

Bentley straightens. “We’re already at risk.”

Kai nods once. “Now you’re targets.”

Nikki exhales slowly. “Because of you?”

“Because of me,” Kai confirms. “Because I’m burned. Because I didn’t disappear when I was supposed to. And because I made sure she knows there are consequences.”

“We need to move,” Nikki says. “This place isn’t secure now that shots were fired nearby. Someone’s already going to be reviewing cameras.”

“I’ve got another location,” Bentley offers. “Temporary. Off-grid enough to buy us time.”

“We walking or…?” I ask.

“I’ll get a car, princess,” Bentley says, rolling his eyes.

“Wake me when you’re ready,” I say, leaning back into the bed and closing my eyes.

All I hear are the shuffle of footsteps and a door clicking shut before the mattress gives under a weight. I curl towards Kai without thinking about it. An arm slides around my waist—not tight, not claiming—just there. An anchor. His breath warms the back of my neck, steady and real, and my body exhales like it’s been waiting for permission.

“You don’t sleep,” I murmur, eyes still closed.

“I do,” he says quietly. “Just not when I don’t know where you are.”

I hum in response, the sound small and honest. “I’m right here.”

His arm tightens a fraction. Not fear. Confirmation.

For a minute, neither of us moves. The apartment hums with distant city noise—sirens farther away now, traffic resettling into its usual rhythm. The world pretending nothing just cracked open.

“Neve, we need to talk about what comes next,” he whispers, running his palm over my arm.

His hand stills on my arm like he’s recalibrating—like he expected resistance and is adjusting to the absence of it.

“I need you to hear this without assuming the worst,” he says carefully.

I turn just enough to look at him over my shoulder. He’s propped on one elbow now, the other still around me, gaze fixed on the far wall like he doesn’t trust himself to look straight at me yet.

“Next usually means bad,” I say. “But go ahead.”

A corner of his mouth twitches. “Fair.” He exhales slowly. “Helen doesn’t improvise. If she’s lost control of you, she’ll pivot to containment. If she’s lost control of me, she’ll erase the variable.”

“And Nikki and Bentley,” I add.

“Yes,” he says.

I roll onto my back fully, stitches protesting, and he immediately shifts to accommodate me—pillows, angle, space. I catch his wrist before he can fuss too much.

“I’m not glass,” I say.

“I know,” he replies. “You’re steel. I just don’t want you cracked open again.”

“So,” I say, staring at the ceiling, “what does containment look like to someone like her?”

“She tries to bring us back into the fold first,” he says. “Reframe today as a misunderstanding. Offer protection. Structure. A future that looks safe if you don’t look too closely.”

“And if we don’t take it?”

“Then she stops pretending you’re people.”

I let that sit between us. Let the truth stretch out where it can’t hide.

“You said we,” I note quietly. “Not me.”

His eyes finally come to mine.

“There isn’t a version of this where I step away from you,” he says. “Not anymore. Not after today.”

Something warm and sharp twists in my chest. “That sounds dangerously close to a promise.”

“It is.”

I study his face—the lines tension carved there, the calm that only comes from someone who’s survived worse than fear. Someone who’s already thought this through.

“You’ve been planning,” I say.

He doesn’t deny it. “Contingencies. Exits. Worst-case scenarios.”

My hand goes to the stubble on his jaw, fingers sliding from there to his hair. “I’m listening.”

“What do you know about my military records?” he asks.

I shrug. “Not much other than you were overseas. Most of it was redacted.”

He nods, leaning into my hand.

“That’s because the version you were allowed to see is the clean one,” he says. “Training. Deployment. Decorations that don’t explain anything.”

“And the rest?” I ask.

He exhales through his nose. Not a sigh. A reset.

“The rest is the part where I stopped existing on paper,” he says. “No insignia. No unit names. No mission logs that survive longer than the debrief. We didn’t just neutralize threats—we erased narratives. People. Events. Sometimes entire operations.”

My fingers still in his hair.

“You were an eraser,” I say.

“Yes.”

Not proud. Not ashamed. Just honest.

“I was good at it,” he continues quietly. “Too good. That’s why Helen kept pulling strings to keep me in circulation. And why burning me was supposed to end things cleanly.”

“But it didn’t,” I say.

“No,” he agrees. “Because I planned for that, too.”

I don’t pull my hand away. I don’t flinch. I’ve lived my life adjacent to violence long enough to know that truth doesn’t always look like mercy—but lies always look like safety until they don’t.

“What does planning look like for someone like you?” I ask.

His eyes search mine. Not for permission. For consent to keep going.

“I know how to disappear people so thoroughly that even the systems designed to track ghosts stop looking,” he says. “I know how to build a death that satisfies every question before it’s asked. Medical. Digital. Financial.”

My breath catches. Just a little.

“You’re talking about faking deaths,” I say.

“Yes.”

Mine. His. Ours.

Silence stretches—not brittle, not panicked. Dense. Heavy with possibility.

“And after?” I ask. “After we’re gone?”

He shifts closer, careful of my side, forehead resting lightly against mine.

“After, we live quietly,” he says. “Different names. Different rhythms. No handlers. No leverage. No one pulling strings behind the curtain.”

I swallow. “That sounds like running.”

“It’s choosing,” he corrects gently.

I close my eyes, pressing my forehead to his. Images flicker through my head—no more watching reflections. No more anticipating knives in the dark. No more being shaped by people who think they know what survival looks like better than I do.

“And Bentley and Nikki?” I ask.

“They’d be safe,” he says. “They already know how to vanish. They’d grieve us convincingly. They’d move on.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “You’ve really thought this through.”

“I’ve been thinking about it since the first time I realized Helen wouldn’t let me age out,” he admits. “I just didn’t have a reason to choose it until now.”

I open my eyes.

“And now?” I ask.

He looks me in the eyes.

“Now I do.”

Something in me clicks into place. Not fear. Not even hope.

Clarity.

I pull back just enough to look at him fully. “If we do this,” I say slowly, “we do it clean. No half-measures. No deciding for me. No disappearing into contingency plans without my say.”

His mouth curves, just slightly. “I wouldn’t dare.”

“And,” I add, “we don’t die because we’re scared. We do it because we’re done letting other people decide how we live.”

His thumb brushes my cheek. “Exactly.”

I take a breath. A real one. The kind I don’t have to brace first.

“Okay,” I say. “Then we plan our deaths.”

He lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh—something like awe threaded with relief.

“God,” he murmurs. “You’re incredible.”

“Just shut up and kiss me.”

His mouth finds mine like it’s been waiting for permission all along, like this decision unlocked something feral and reverent at the same time. The kiss isn’t frantic—it’s deliberate. Anchored. The kind that says I’m here, I’m choosing this, I’m choosing you.

I slide my hand back into his hair, tug just enough to feel him smile into my mouth before it fades into something deeper. He kisses me like a vow he doesn’t need to say out loud. Like the future just cracked open and instead of flinching, he stepped closer.

His hand cups my jaw, thumb warm against my cheek, steadying me as much as himself. The world narrows—not to desperation, not to escape—but to this exact moment where everything finally aligns.

When we part, it’s only because breathing becomes necessary again.

His forehead rests against mine, eyes still closed. “That felt definitive.”

“Good,” I say softly. “I’m done with maybes.”

His eyes open then—bright, sure, all that fire I’ve been orbiting my entire life finally facing me head-on.

“So am I.”

He kisses me again, gentler this time, slower. Like sealing the decision instead of igniting it. When he pulls back, his thumb traces the line of my mouth like he’s memorizing it.

“Tomorrow,” he says quietly, “we start laying the groundwork.”

I nod. “The next day we die.”

“And after that?” he asks.

I smile, tired and unafraid. “After that, we live.”

One red dot.

One promise.

And no time to look back.

New here or missed a day? Here’s the TOC, updated as chapters post.

Chapter One: Neve

Chapter Two: Kai

Chapter Three: Neve

Chapter Four: Kai

Chapter Five: Neve

Chapter Six: Kai

Chapter Seven: Kai

Chapter Eight: Neve

Chapter Nine: Kai

Chapter Ten: Neve

Chapter Eleven: Kai

Chapter Twelve: Kai

Chapter Thirteen: Neve

Chapter Fourteen: Neve

Chapter Fifteen: Kai

Chapter Sixteen: Neve

Chapter Seventeen: Kai

Chapter Eighteen: Neve

Chapter Nineteen: Kai

Chapter Twenty: Neve

Chapter Twenty-One: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Two: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Three: Neve

Chapter Twenty-Four: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Five: Neve

Chapter Twenty-Six: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Neve

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Kai

Chapter Thirty: Neve

Chapter Thirty-One: Kai

Chapter Thirty-Two: Neve

The walls in this house are all the same color. That same stupid gray influencers once said was neutral enough to appeal to everyone. I’m happy to say I’m an exception as I hold a staring contest with it while Kai showers.

Gray doesn’t hold the warmth from waking up in his arms this morning. When my nose brushed against his after he kissed me good morning. When I remembered—briefly, dangerously—what it feels like to wake up without bracing for impact.

The shower cuts off.

I exhale like I’ve been holding that breath on purpose.

We don’t talk much while we get ready. There’s no use. Because everything that matters is already understood. Today isn’t about us. It’s about Bentley. And Nikki. And whether the two of them are going to look at what’s coming and decide to stand still or run straight at it.

We choose a place Bentley suggested: a co-working space that used to be a print shop downtown. Glass walls. Too many windows. Too many exits to count—which is either smart or suspicious depending on how the day goes.

Kai drives. I watch reflections in the windshield instead of the road. My stitches pull when I twist, a reminder not to get stupid. I press my fingers to my side until the ache settles.

“You good over there?” Kai asks, not looking at me.

I nod and keep my eyes trained forward, slipping back into the cold person I had to become. It feels foreign and familiar at the same time.

“You’re quiet,” Kai observes.

“I’m switching gears,” I admit. “Probably the same you have to do for a cover.”

Kai nods once. No questions. No reassurance. Just acceptance.

That’s the thing about him. He doesn’t ask me to soften. He doesn’t ask me to stay warm when the world requires cold. He just adjusts his own temperature and stands beside me anyway.

The building comes into view a few minutes later—brick exterior, tall windows, a chalkboard sign out front advertising community like it’s something you can curate with good Wi-Fi and bad coffee. I hate it on principle alone.

We park a block away. On purpose.

Kai gets out first, scanning reflections, angles, the quiet places between people moving too casually. When he opens my door, his hand hovers near my elbow—not touching unless I need it.

“I’ve got it,” I say quietly.

“I know,” he replies. Still stays close.

Inside, the space is bright and loud in that performative way meant to feel safe. Glass walls everywhere. Exposed ductwork. People pretending they aren’t listening while absolutely listening.

Bentley’s already there. He stands when he sees me—too fast. Relief flashes across his face before he reins it in. For a split second, I almost go to him.

But I pull it together quickly, remembering I’m in public. Even if I’m not in my normal armor of designer suits and blues, blacks, and cold, I can still let the silence do the work for me.

Mask, I remind myself.

Bentley clocks it—the pause, the restraint. His shoulders tense like he knows exactly what it costs me not to move.

“Neve,” he says carefully. “You look—”

“Like I didn’t die,” I finish, sliding into the chair across from him with deliberate calm. “Which feels like a win, all things considered.”

He exhales, some of the tension bleeding out. “I’m really glad you’re okay.”

I watch him for a few more seconds before I turn to Nikki, who’s locked in her own staring contest with Kai.

She’s good. I’ll give her that.

Relaxed posture. Tablet open like this is just another meeting she’ll forget by lunch. But her eyes never stop moving—tracking Kai’s weight shifts, the angle of his shoulders, the way he stands half a step closer to me than necessary.

“Neve,” Nikki says at last, breaking eye contact with Kai and offering me a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m glad you’re upright.”

“I’m glad to finally meet the girl occupying my brother’s bed,” I say pointedly.

Because the way she’s judging Kai is the exact kind of irony I’m good at noticing.

Nikki’s smile freezes for half a beat before she recovers.

Bentley makes a low, warning sound. “Neve—”

“I’m fine,” I say without looking at him. My eyes stay on Nikki. “I just like to be clear about who’s watching whom.”

Kai doesn’t move. Doesn’t intervene. Which tells me everything I need to know—he trusts me to handle this, and Nikki’s already clocked that too.

She tilts her head, studying me with renewed interest. “I’m not the enemy, Neve.”

“Maybe lay out your defense before you jump to the verdict,” I tell her. Then I look at Bentley. “Both of you.”

Bentley straightens, palms flattening on the table like he’s grounding himself. Nikki exhales once, slow and deliberate, then closes the tablet and finally gives us her full attention.

“Fair,” Nikki says. “Here it is, clean and simple.”

She looks at Bentley first. “First, Helen’s not your aunt. Not really.”

I don’t give my reaction away, but my heart speeds up. I let the silence win.

“She was your mother’s handler,” Nikki says.

I don’t react. I don’t blink. I don’t give her the satisfaction of seeing it hit bone.

Instead, I lean back in my chair and let the quiet stretch until Nikki shifts under it.

“Go on,” I say calmly.

Bentley’s knuckles are white against the tabletop.

Nikki keeps her voice even. “Your mother wasn’t just adjacent to Helen’s operations. She was an asset. Long-term. Embedded. Valuable.”

“And disposable,” I say.

Nikki shakes her head. “No.”

“No?”

Kai’s hand moves to mine.

“She removed your mother and put her in witness protection right before your first birthday,” Nikki says.

I force my body to stay still. But I want to sway.

“Witness protection keeps parents and children together,” Kai counters.

Nikki shakes her head. “Helen could only extract one of them. She made the choice and didn’t tell Neve’s mother until the last second.”

The room tilts anyway.

Not enough to show. Just enough that I feel it in my teeth.

“She made the choice,” I repeat softly.

Bentley’s voice comes out rough. “Helen framed it as mercy. Said your mother was compromised. That the safest option was extraction without attachments.”

“Attachments,” I echo. “You mean me.”

Nikki nods once. “She told your mother you’d be safer without her. That she’d watch you. Protect you. Shape the environment so you’d never be vulnerable the way she was.”

Kai’s fingers tighten around mine. Not stopping me. Just there.

“And my mother believed her,” I say. It’s not a question.

“Yes,” Nikki says. “Because Helen was her handler. And handlers don’t ask—they tell you what survival looks like.”

The glass walls feel closer now. Like the space is shrinking around a truth that’s been waiting decades to breathe.

“So my mother didn’t abandon me,” I say. “She was taken out of my life by design.”

“No, Neve, she didn’t abandon you,” a voice says over my shoulder.

Kai goes rigid beside me. Not reaching for a weapon—reaching for control. Bentley shifts fast, instinctive, putting himself half a step between Nikki and the woman like he’s bracing for fallout. Nikki’s already turning, eyes sharp, hand dropping subtly to her bag.

Me? I stay exactly where I am.

I turn slowly and lock eyes on the woman standing a few feet behind us.

She’s older than the ghost in my head. Lines at the corners of her mouth. Her posture is careful but not fearful. Like someone who learned a long time ago how to stand in rooms where saying the wrong thing could get you killed.

“You’ve got a lot to explain, Helen,” I tell her.

She smiles like I’ve just paid her a compliment.

“Still sharp,” Helen says, stepping fully into the glass-walled room like she owns the air rights. “That’s always been one of your better qualities.”

Bentley’s voice is tight. “You weren’t invited.”

Helen’s gaze flicks to him, dismissive. “You never did understand how invitations work.”

Kai shifts beside me. Subtle. Protective. Helen clocks it immediately.

“Kai,” she says, tone sharpening. “You’ve complicated things.”

“You burned me,” he replies calmly. “That tends to complicate loyalty.”

Helen scoffs. “You were burned the second Nikki tapped you for this job.”

Nikki straightens, chin lifting a fraction. “Funny. You didn’t seem to think so when the results kept coming in.”

Helen doesn’t look at her. Her attention stays on Kai, sharp and appraising, like she’s trying to decide whether he’s a loose thread or a blade pointed back at her.

“You overstepped,” Helen says. “Both of you did. And now the consequences ripple outward.” Her gaze flicks to Bentley. “You especially.”

Bentley swallows. “You’re threatening us.”

“I’m explaining the math,” Helen replies mildly. “Kai is compromised. Which makes proximity to him a liability. Liabilities get contained.”

I lean back in my chair. Let her see the calm. “So this is the part where you scare everyone back into line.”

Helen’s eyes finally come back to me. There’s something almost fond there. Almost.

“You always did understand the structure,” she says. “Which is why this is salvageable.”

“No,” I say. Not loud. Not emotional. Just final.

She studies me for a beat, then sighs. “You’re upset. You’ve just learned things that were never meant to be handled without guidance.”

Kai leans forward. “You’re not in control anymore, Helen.”

Her gaze shifts to him. “How do you figure on that?”

“You taught me the value of a good insurance policy,” he tells her. “Mine’s in good hands. Everything you’ve been doing for your entire career in one spot. Good and bad. Sanctioned and not. And don’t go thinking I’m dumb enough to only have one copy. You taught me better than that.”

For the first time, Helen doesn’t respond immediately. She recalculates. I can see it—the way her eyes go distant, the way her breathing shifts just slightly. A strategist hitting a wall she didn’t anticipate.

“That was unwise,” she says finally.

“No,” Kai replies. “It was inevitable.”

Bentley finds his voice. “So what now?”

Helen looks at him like he’s a disappointing student. Then she smooths her expression, schooling it into something almost gentle.

“Now,” she says, “we de-escalate. We step back. We acknowledge mistakes on all sides.”

“And pretend none of this happened?” Nikki asks coolly.

Helen’s smile tightens. “We start over.”

I open my mouth to say something, but something red flashes in my peripheral.

A pinpoint. Too precise. Too intentional.

I turn just in time to see it—a familiar red dot skating along the wall beside me, dragging across the floor like it’s tasting the room before it commits.

It disappears.

“Kai—”

He sees it at the same time I do.

His arms are already around me, momentum brutal and exact as he yanks me sideways. My chair skids. My shoulder slams into him as the shot cracks through the space—whump.

The bullet punches into the wall where my head was a heartbeat ago, glass exploding outward in a shriek that finally makes the room scream.

“Down!” Kai shouts.

Everything detonates at once.

People scatter. Someone goes over a table. Alarms start wailing like the building itself is panicking. Another shot rings out—then another—no warning, no shouted orders. Professional. Coordinated.

Helen drops low, fury ripping the softness off her face as she snaps into her comm. “They’re here. Target confirmed.”

Not us.

Me.

“Side exit,” Nikki barks, already moving.

She grabs my arm hard enough to hurt and hauls me off balance as another bullet shatters the glass behind where Helen was sitting seconds ago. Bentley swears and moves with Kai in the opposite direction, not hesitating, not looking back.

They don’t chase us.

They turn—toward the shooters.

Kai’s hand leaves me only long enough to shove me toward Nikki. “Run,” he orders, already drawing fire away. “Don’t stop.”

“Kai—” I start to protest.

“I’ll find you, Neve,” he says, already turning away as Bentley passes him the gun. His voice is steady. Certain. Like this is a promise, not a reassurance. “Go. Now.”

Nikki doesn’t give me time to argue. She yanks me hard toward the side corridor, her grip iron, her pace ruthless.

We run.

The space collapses into noise and motion—screams, alarms, glass still raining down like angry hail. My boots slip once on shattered concrete and Nikki hauls me upright without breaking stride.

“Left,” she snaps, shoving a door open with her shoulder.

We burst into a narrow service hall that smells like toner and hot dust. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, turning everything staccato and unreal. My stitches burn white-hot, but I clamp down on the sound clawing up my throat. Pain is a problem for later. Survival is now.

Behind us, gunfire answers gunfire.

Short bursts. Controlled.

Kai and Bentley aren’t panicking.

They’re buying us distance.

“They won’t chase,” Nikki says over her shoulder, already keying a door at the end of the hall. “Not with two operators pinning them down.”

“You’re sure?” I gasp.

She throws the door open and drags me through into a loading bay. Cold air hits my face like a slap.

“They weren’t sent to clean up,” she says. “They were sent to erase. Once the target’s moving, they reassess.”

I don’t like how calmly she says that.

We sprint across the bay and out into daylight—too bright, too open. Nikki veers us immediately right, down a narrow alley that smells like garbage and old rain.

My side screams. I stagger.

Nikki swears and slows just enough to get an arm around my back, half-carrying me now. “Stay with me,” she orders. “You don’t get to check out yet.”

“I’m not,” I grit out. “Just… pissed.”

“That’s good,” she says. “Anger keeps you upright.”

A car backfires somewhere nearby and I flinch hard enough to throw off our balance. Nikki steadies us both, scanning rooftops, reflections, windows.

“Eyes up,” she mutters. “They’ll have overwatch.”

We duck through another door—this one propped open with a crate—and spill into the back stairwell of an apartment building. Nikki takes the steps two at a time, dragging me with her until my lungs feel like they’re tearing.

We burst out onto the street three blocks over.

She finally slows, pulling me into the shadow of a parked truck. I bend forward, hands on my knees, breathing ragged, vision swimming.

For one terrifying second, all I can hear is my own pulse.

Then—sirens. Distant. Growing.

Nikki crouches beside me, one hand firm on my shoulder. “They won’t stay once first responders flood the area.”

“Kai,” I manage.

She meets my eyes. “If he said he’ll find you, he will.”

I swallow hard and nod, forcing my legs to lock again even though they’re shaking.

“Okay,” I say. “Then we move.”

Nikki’s mouth curves into something sharp and approving. “That’s the right answer.”

We slip back into the crowd just as police cruisers scream past, the chaos behind us swallowing the sound of gunfire and screams and shattered glass.

I don’t look back.

Outside, enemies are closing in.

Inside, Kai makes the only decision that matters.

New here or missed a day? Here’s the TOC, updated as chapters post.

Chapter One: Neve

Chapter Two: Kai

Chapter Three: Neve

Chapter Four: Kai

Chapter Five: Neve

Chapter Six: Kai

Chapter Seven: Kai

Chapter Eight: Neve

Chapter Nine: Kai

Chapter Ten: Neve

Chapter Eleven: Kai

Chapter Twelve: Kai

Chapter Thirteen: Neve

Chapter Fourteen: Neve

Chapter Fifteen: Kai

Chapter Sixteen: Neve

Chapter Seventeen: Kai

Chapter Eighteen: Neve

Chapter Nineteen: Kai

Chapter Twenty: Neve

Chapter Twenty-One: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Two: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Three: Neve

Chapter Twenty-Four: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Five: Neve

Chapter Twenty-Six: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Neve

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Kai

Chapter Thirty: Neve

Chapter Thirty-One: Kai

Jamie’s still got murder in his eyes as I ease Neve out of the SUV and into the safehouse. It’s the kind of murder that comes with clean hands and a very clear understanding of anatomy if his mouth’s to be believed.

“I’m fine,” Neve mutters as her feet hit the floor.

Jamie shoots her a look that could peel paint. “You ran through the woods with stitches. You are, medically speaking, an idiot.”

“You’re mouthy for someone not on my payroll,” she fires back.

I keep my hand at her back, guiding her toward the couch before either of them can escalate. She’s steady on her feet, but I feel the shift in her weight—how much she’s compensating. The adrenaline’s gone. Pain’s moving in to take its place.

Jamie drops his bag on the table and snaps on gloves. “Sit. Shirt up. Mouth closed.”

Neve obeys all three with exaggerated patience.

“What do you need me to do?” I ask him.

He glares at me. “Are you medically trained?”

“I can throw a stitch and follow instructions,” I say.

Jamie studies me for a long, measuring second—cataloging my size, my steadiness, the fact that I’m not posturing or backing down.

“Fine,” he says finally. “You’re on assistant duty. You touch nothing unless I tell you to.”

“Copy that,” I reply.

Neve rolls her eyes. “Great. My two favorite control freaks.”

Jamie doesn’t look at her as he cleans the wound, efficient and ruthless. “If you flinch, I will staple you out of spite.”

“I’d like it noted for the record that this is not informed consent,” she says.

I take position at her side, bracing her shoulder lightly, letting her set the pressure. She leans into it without comment, breath hitching once as Jamie probes deeper.

“Two sutures torn,” he mutters. “Internal hold’s intact. You’re lucky.”

“I am charmed,” Neve replies through clenched teeth.

Jamie threads the needle. “You’re also an idiot.”

“Redundant diagnosis.”

He glances at me. “Hold there.”

I do, steadying skin and muscle while he works. Neve goes quiet—real quiet. The kind that means she’s enduring instead of performing. I clock it, tighten my grip just enough to ground her.

“Breathe,” I murmur.

She does. When Jamie finishes, he tapes the dressing down harder than necessary.

“You’re grounded,” he says flatly. “No running. No fighting. No heroic bullshit.”

Neve exhales. “You wound me.”

“You wounded yourself,” he snaps.

I brush a hair out of Neve’s face. Her skin’s damp with sweat, but she looks at me with a tired gaze.

“Rest,” I tell her softly. “I’ll figure out food.”

“I brought a sub for her,” Jamie offers. “It’s a footlong, so you can probably split it.”

I blink at him. “You came prepared.”

Jamie shrugs, already peeling off his gloves. “I know her. She gets stabby when she’s hungry.”

Neve lifts her head a fraction. “I do not get—”

“You tried to stab me with a fork once,” Jamie says without missing a beat. “At Applebee’s.”

Neve glares at him like she’s about to respond. I step between them, clearing my throat.

“Okay, we’ll split it,” I say to both of them. “But he’s not wrong about you being hangry. So either rest or eat something. Those are your choices right now.”

“It’s a tie,” she says, leaning into the couch cushions.

“Looks like sleep’s winning,” I point out.

She flips me off. I catch her wrist gently before she can commit to the gesture, lowering her hand with a faint smile.

“Rest,” I say gently.

Jamie clears the suture kit and sets the sandwich on the counter. “It’s Italian with no black olives. You’re welcome. Pickle chips are in the bag, too.”

“Pickle chips?” Neve perks up from the couch. “You could have led with that.”

Jamie smirks. “I like to save the good news for when you’re being difficult.”

She groans and sinks back into the cushions. “I hate that you know me.”

“Medical necessity,” he replies. “Also friendship.”

I unwrap the sandwich and tear it cleanly in half, setting one piece within Neve’s reach. She eyes it like she’s negotiating with herself, then sighs and takes a few careful bites.

“See?” Jamie says. “Already less feral.”

“I was never feral,” she mutters around a mouthful.

“Applebee’s fork,” he reminds her.

I hide my smile by taking a bite of the other half, keeping my attention on her anyway. Color’s coming back into her face. Her breathing’s slower now, steadier.

Jamie shoulders his bag. “I’m going to pack and head out before I talk myself into staying.”

“Before you go,” I say, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the drive. “I need you to hold this for insurance purposes.”

Jamie takes it like it’s a bomb and looks at me. “Do I want to know?”

“Want or need?” Neve asks from the couch.

He shoots her a look. “That sounds like this is bad.”

“I’m burned,” I explain. “This is evidence that lets me walk away with a pulse instead of in a body bag.”

Jamie’s expression hardens—not fear, not panic. Focus.

“Burned how?” he asks.

“Officially?” I say. “I disobeyed orders, crossed jurisdictions, and attached myself to a woman my leadership wants contained—or dead. Unofficially? I know too much, and I’m no longer useful.”

Neve stills on the couch, sandwich forgotten halfway to her mouth.

Jamie glances at her, then back to me. “And this”—he lifts the drive slightly—“keeps you breathing?”

“It gives me leverage,” I answer. “Financial trails. Shell companies. Names my boss’s boss, Helen, buried deep enough to forget she ever touched them. If something happens to me, this makes her very uncomfortable.”

Jamie exhales slowly through his nose. “You want me gone.”

“I want you out of reach,” I say. “If Helen starts shaking the tree, she’ll look for people close to Neve. You’re the obvious one. I’ll text you a photo of her so you’ll know what to look for.”

Jamie looks at the drive again, then slips it into the inner pocket of his jacket. “How long?”

“A few days. A week, if you can manage it,” I say. “Somewhere boring. Somewhere Helen wouldn’t bother to look.”

“Great,” he mutters. “I’ll go hide in a town with one stoplight and terrible coffee.”

Neve speaks up, voice steady despite the fatigue. “Take the long way. Don’t check in unless you have to.”

Jamie meets her gaze. “You don’t get to scare me and then act casual about it.”

She gives him a tired half-smile. “I’ve been doing that our whole lives.”

He snorts quietly, then looks back at me. “If this blows back on her—”

“It won’t,” I say immediately. “Not without going through me first.”

Jamie studies my face, searching for bravado. He doesn’t find any.

“Okay,” he says at last. “I’ll disappear. Temporarily.”

“Thank you,” I reply.

He turns toward the door, then pauses. “For what it’s worth,” he adds without looking back, “I still don’t trust you.”

“That’s fair,” I say.

“But,” he continues, glancing over his shoulder, “you showed up today. You chased her instead of letting her vanish. That counts for something.”

He leaves before I can answer.

The house goes quiet again.

Neve exhales and leans back against the couch, eyes closing briefly. “So,” she murmurs, “we’re officially in the ‘everything’s on fire but we’re calm about it’ phase.”

I sit beside her, close enough to feel her heat. “That’s usually when the important decisions get made.”

She opens her eyes and looks at me. “Bentley.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Bentley.”

“We’ll set a meeting with him tomorrow,” she says.

I nod. “Sounds good. Until then, you’re finishing that sandwich so you can take your meds.”

She groans softly. “You’re really leaning into this caretaker thing.”

“Don’t act like you don’t like it.”

She cracks one eye open, the corner of her mouth tugging despite herself. “I like it in the same way I like gravity. Annoying. Inescapable.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say.

She sighs and reaches for the sandwich again, taking a few dutiful bites. I wait her out. When she’s done, I pass her the water and meds without ceremony. She eyes them like she’s offended.

That’s when I reach into the bag and grab the back of dill pickle potato chips, leaning back and crunching loudly on one with a smug grin.

“Those are mine,” she says.

“Meds first,” I inform her. “Then you can have them if there’s any left.”

She squints at me, weighing violence versus compliance. Pain tips the scale.

“You’re enjoying this,” she accuses, popping the pills into her mouth and taking the water I offer.

“Immensely,” I say, crunching another chip for emphasis.

That earns me a soft huff of a laugh, the kind that slips out before she can stop it. I hand her the bag as soon as she downs the pills, and she takes it, immediately stealing two chips and crunching them with satisfaction.

“See?” she says. “Positive reinforcement works better.”

“Duly noted,” I say. “Next time I’ll bribe you sooner.”

Her shoulders ease as she settles back into the couch, fatigue pulling her under in waves now that the meds are in her system. She nudges my knee lightly with her own and offers me a chip. I take it.

For a few minutes, it’s just the sound of us. She folds the bag neatly and tosses it onto the coffee table.

“Hey,” she says softly. “If this goes sideways tomorrow—”

“It won’t,” I interrupt gently.

She looks at me. “If it does.”

I hold her gaze. “Then we adapt. We don’t panic. We don’t run alone.”

She studies my face for a long second, like she’s checking the seams for weak points.

“Together?” she asks quietly.

“Always,” I say.

Something in her eases at that—not relief exactly, but acceptance. Like she’s finally letting the truth land instead of bracing for it to be taken away.

“Think I could persuade you to let me use you for a pillow?” she asks.

“Here or the bed?” I ask.

“I hate sleeping on couches.”

I glance down at her side, the fresh bandage still stark against her skin, then back at her face.

“Bed,” I decide. “But we take it slow.”

She nods, already shifting carefully. I rise first and offer my hand, keeping my grip steady as she stands. She leans into me without comment this time, trusting me to manage the distance and the balance.

We make it down the short hall quietly. I pull the covers back and help her sit, then ease her down onto the mattress, adjusting pillows until she’s comfortable and her side is supported.

I start to step back—

She catches my sleeve. “Stay.”

She shifts, making space without asking, and I slide in beside her, careful not to jostle her side. I prop myself slightly so she can lean into me without pressure, one arm braced along the headboard, the other resting where she put it—around her waist, steady and light.

Her head settles against my chest with a tired little sigh that feels like it unhooks something in me.

“Tell me if you need me to move,” I murmur.

“I won’t,” she whispers, running her hand over my chest. “Because I won’t.”

Her hand moves slowly, not searching—just tracing, like she’s reminding herself I’m real. Warm. Here.

I still. Every instinct in me wants to pull her closer, to wrap her up and lock this moment in place. I don’t. I let her set the terms. Let her take what she needs. My hand at her waist stays exactly where it is—support, not claim. Her fingers curl lightly in my shirt, breath syncing with mine in a way that feels older than tonight, older than the mess that brought us here.

She exhales, long and deep, and the tension drains out of her in a way I can feel through bone and muscle. Her body goes heavy against mine, trust settling in layer by layer.

Her breathing evens out faster than I expect. The meds are doing their job. So is the quiet. So is the simple fact that she’s not alone. I lie there listening to her breathe, feeling the slow rise and fall beneath my hand, committing the weight of her against me to memory.

And I know, with absolute clarity, that I’m not leaving her again.

Turns out the boy who called her Terminator in middle school has been in love with her the whole time.

New here or missed a day? Here’s the TOC, updated as chapters post.

Chapter One: Neve

Chapter Two: Kai

Chapter Three: Neve

Chapter Four: Kai

Chapter Five: Neve

Chapter Six: Kai

Chapter Seven: Kai

Chapter Eight: Neve

Chapter Nine: Kai

Chapter Ten: Neve

Chapter Eleven: Kai

Chapter Twelve: Kai

Chapter Thirteen: Neve

Chapter Fourteen: Neve

Chapter Fifteen: Kai

Chapter Sixteen: Neve

Chapter Seventeen: Kai

Chapter Eighteen: Neve

Chapter Nineteen: Kai

Chapter Twenty: Neve

Chapter Twenty-One: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Two: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Three: Neve

Chapter Twenty-Four: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Five: Neve

Chapter Twenty-Six: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Kai

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Neve

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Kai

Chapter Thirty: Neve

Eventually, the path turns into something steadier. My mind drifts away from my body. The adrenaline ebbs, and memories take over.

I remember the day I met Kai. Sixth grade’s a hell of a time for a girl. Boys were bullies. Girls were worse. And I was still mostly legs, no curves, teeth too naturally straight to need braces like everyone else. I didn’t fit in enough to disappear, but I didn’t stand out in any way that mattered. I was just there, like a shadow everyone kept stepping over.

No one wanted to make friends with Carlos Hill’s daughter. No one wanted to make her the enemy, either.

I can still feel the metal of the locker when a girl twice my size shouldered me into it—hard enough to rattle the hinge and leave a bruise. All because I’d picked up a notebook her boyfriend dropped and handed it back. That was it. No flirting. No lingering look. Just reflex and manners—two things that didn’t belong to girls like me, apparently.

Everyone watched, but no one moved. That was the rule with me: watch but don’t intervene. Carlos Hill’s daughter was radioactive. You didn’t get close. You didn’t help.

I can still feel my nails biting into my skin as I clenched my fists, sized her up, and threw my apple at her head. The second she turned? I had my heaviest book waiting for her face.

It didn’t connect, exactly.

Because before it could, a hand caught my wrist—tight and fast and completely out of nowhere.

“Easy, Terminator,” Kai said, his voice dry and calm like we weren’t about to have a full-blown brawl in the middle of the hallway.

That was the first time I really saw him. Not just noticed him—saw him.

He had that look, even then. Like he was always one step away from trouble but too smart to fall into it by accident. His grip wasn’t rough. It was firm, like someone who knew exactly how much strength to use and when.

I looked at him, breathing hard, blood pounding in my ears, and he just held my eyes.

“She’s not worth detention,” he added quietly.

I don’t remember much with clarity after that. I was too focused on the blue of his eyes—the kind of fire that made the world stop screaming. Not hot like rage—steady, like a signal flare. Dangerous if you got too close. Lifesaving if you were lost.

Maybe that’s what he’s always been. Not a person. A flare. Something I didn’t know I was following until I looked up and realized I’d left the rest of the world behind.

He didn’t say anything else that day. Just gave me the smallest nod, like we shared a secret no one else had earned, then walked away like he hadn’t just stepped in and rewritten the rules.

And I stood there, textbook in hand, pulse still in my throat, and thought: So that’s what not being alone feels like.

Even now, all these years later, when everything between us is fractured and raw, I can still trace the map back to that moment. That look. That voice. That fire.

I stop walking as soon as the thought hits me. First impressions matter because if you get them right, they outline an entire relationship. Kai never cared that I was Carlos Hill’s daughter. He stepped in when everyone else left me alone.

He stops beside me, eyes trained on me. I look at him, eyes finding his like that beacon of blue reaching for me.

For a second the years collapse in on themselves. Sixth grade lockers. Blood and apples and textbooks. High school watching him date the cheerleaders and be carried on the football team’s shoulders. The summer after graduation when he worked for Dad and invited me to ride dirt roads after it rained. Getting stuck and not minding because of the way he looked at me like I was a storm and shelter all at once. Like I was already his and he was just waiting for me to catch up.

“What am I to you?” I ask him, echoing what I asked him when he kissed me the first time in the back of that truck when we sat under a blanket of stars.

He looks at me. Like he’s peeling back every moment between then and now. Like he’s holding all the versions of me in his hands at once: the angry kid with fists full of fight, the teenager pretending not to care he was dating someone else, the woman who keeps breaking her own heart just to see who comes looking for the pieces.

“You’re the line,” he says finally. “The one I never wanted to cross but always did anyway. You’re the reason I came back. The reason I left. The reason nothing else ever felt right.”

He takes a step closer, but not enough to touch me.

“I’ve called you a hundred things in my head,” he says. “Danger. Home. A mistake I’d make again. But none of them come close to what you actually are.”

I swallow hard, throat dry. “Then what am I?”

Kai’s jaw works, like the words hurt coming out. Like they’ve been buried for too long.

“You’re it, Neve. You always were.”

And just like that, I feel it again.

The flare. The fire. The truth I’ve spent my whole damn life running from.

Him.

“I’m not going anywhere, Neve. Even if you tell me to. I’m yours, whether you want me or not.”

I nod, folding my arms over my chest. “Well, you’ve been living rent-free in my head since sixth grade, so I guess this is just manifestation.”

He breathes out something close to a laugh. “Sixth grade, huh? Was it the hair? Because I peaked way too early if it was the hair.”

I bite back my grin, but it’s useless. “You called me Terminator,” I remind him. “Then stopped me from breaking a girl’s face.”

“I saved you from detention,” he points out.

“You saved her,” I counter. “So she’d notice you.”

“Wrong,” he says. “I’d been trying to get your attention for three weeks.”

I stare at him. “Bullshit.”

He tilts his head and narrows his eyes on me. “You used to read in the stairwell during lunch. I walked past it every day even though it was the long way to class. Sat two rows behind you in science just so I could hear you go head-to-head with Mr. Ray about the ethics of cloning. You once threatened to burn down the gym over the dress code.”

My mouth parts slightly, but no sound comes out.

He takes another step toward me. “You weren’t invisible, Neve. You were on fire. And I’ve been staring at that blaze since I was twelve.”

Kai moves one more step closer.

“You think I stopped you from breaking that girl’s face to impress her?” he asks, voice lower now. “I stopped you because you were about to get suspended, and I wasn’t done looking at you yet.”

I have to remind myself to breathe. It’s all I can do at this point as my brain reboots.

“Say something,” he murmurs.

He looks like a dare. A challenge. A boy who grew up into a man and would rather burn from standing too close to my fire than watch it burn from a distance.

And I still can’t find anything to say.

Instead, I take two steps forward, grab his jacket, and kiss him like it’s a goddamn declaration of war.

And surrender.

The world narrows to the taste of him.

Not gentle. Not tentative. I kiss him like I’ve been holding my breath since sixth grade and only just realized I don’t have to anymore. Like every almost, every not yet, every line we never crossed finally collapses into this one undeniable truth.

He freezes for half a second—shock, relief, awe all tangled together—then his hands come up, steady and sure, bracketing my waist without pulling, without trapping. Letting me choose even now.

The second I deepen it, he’s gone.

Not away—with me.

His mouth answers mine like he’s been waiting years for permission. Like he knows exactly what this means and is all in anyway. Heat, familiarity, something feral and reverent all at once.

I twist my fingers into his collar, pouring everything into this moment—every version of me reaching for every one of him. Like this is the last thing I’ll ever get right. And if I go down, it’ll be with the taste of him on my lips and his breath in my lungs.

I’ve kissed him before—recklessly, desperately, quietly. But never like this.

This one feels earned.

Tires crunching on gravel breaks us apart. I look up to see Jamie throwing his SUV into park.

“This should be fun,” I mutter. “You might want to stay behind me. He gets a little like a dragon guarding treasure.”

Kai snorts softly, but there’s tension under it. “I noticed.”

Jamie’s door slams hard enough to echo through the trees. He doesn’t jog toward us—he stalks, eyes already locked on the dark stain at my side, jaw set like he’s doing triage in his head and murder in his heart at the same time.

“Neve,” he calls, sharp and relieved all at once. Then his gaze flicks to Kai, rakes him head to toe, and narrows. “You.”

“Jamie,” Kai replies evenly. Polite. Careful. Not backing down an inch.

“Hey soulmate,” I say with a sheepish grin. “You got time for a house call?”

Jamie’s eyes narrow on me. “Uh-uh, the hot girl calling me soulmate thing doesn’t work for you when you clearly didn’t follow my instructions for your post op care.”

“In my defense—”

“No defense, Neve,” he says, closing the distance between us and motioning for me to lift my shirt.

I do, biting my lip as the cool air hits my skin and Jamie’s expression hardens into something clinical and unimpressed.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You tore this.”

“If it’s any consolation, I did outsmart Kai,” I offer weakly.

Jamie glares at Kai. “Explain why she told me earlier not to trust you, and then I found her making out with you like she just lost Spin The Bottle.”

I groan and tip my head back against the nearest solid surface. “In my defense, context matters.”

Jamie doesn’t look at me. He’s still staring at Kai like he’s deciding whether to sterilize him or bury him.

“Context usually does,” Jamie says coolly. “So does timing. And consent. And the part where she’s bleeding.”

Kai doesn’t rise to it. Doesn’t bristle. He just answers.

“She thought I lied to her,” he says evenly. “She ran. I caught up. We talked. Cleared it.”

Jamie’s gaze snaps back to me. “You ran?”

“Okay, fine. Bad me. But Jamie… Spin The Bottle?” I blurt out.

Jamie straightens and nods. “Yeah, Neve. Same one you got your first kiss to if memory serves.” A slow smirk spreads across his face. “Mine, too.”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, Jamie. I’m aware. Kai probably is, too.”

Kai doesn’t react. Jamie, on the other hand, looks delighted in the way only someone with dirt on you can be.

“Oh, I love this development,” Jamie says mildly. “Because now I get to watch two grown adults process middle-school chaos in real time.”

I sigh and scrub a hand down my face. “Can we not unpack my childhood make-out résumé while I’m actively bleeding?”

Kai finally glances at me then—just a flick of blue, sharp with curiosity and something dangerously amused.

“You kissed Jamie?” he asks.

“Oh, she did more than that,” Jamie says, tugging me by the sleeve. “In the car, soulmate, before I decide you’re not worth it.”

“Unlikely,” I say, stumbling after him. “Then you’d have to admit you have terrible taste.”

Jamie snorts. “Please. I have excellent taste. I just don’t make life choices based on it.”

Kai steps in smoothly on my other side before Jamie can haul me any farther, one hand settling at my back like it’s always belonged there. Protective without being territorial. Present without posturing.

“Easy,” he whispers to me as he eases me into the seat.

When he moves to step back, I don’t let go. He glances down at my hand and then me.

“Don’t let the dragon scare you off,” I whisper. “I just got you back.”

His expression shifts at that—not dramatic, not startled. Just something quiet and resolute settling in behind his eyes. He glances up where Jamie’s already in the driver’s seat. Kai nods and opens my door wider, climbing over me into the seat beside me.

Jamie slowly turns to look at us as we sit on the bench seat behind him.

“To the safehouse,” I tell him. “You can restitch me there and yell at both of us.”

Jamie stares at us in the rearview mirror for a long, silent beat.

Then he exhales through his nose, like a man accepting that today has officially gone off-script.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters.

I tilt my head back against the seat, eyes fluttering as the adrenaline finally burns off. “You love me.”

“I tolerate you,” he corrects, throwing the SUV into gear. “Because you’re stubborn, brilliant, and a magnet for bad decisions.”

Kai’s arm shifts subtly behind me, bracing so the movement doesn’t jostle my side. It’s automatic. Unshowy. Like he’s been doing this forever.

Jamie catches it in the mirror. Doesn’t comment. Just nods once.

“Safehouse it is,” he says. “And for the record, if you tear another stitch, I’m stapling you.”

I nod, but I’m not listening. Because every bit of my body is responding to Kai like he’s a walking safety net. Which is weird when I consider how today’s gone. But I don’t fight it. Trusting my gut is why I’m still alive.

The road hums under us, steady and low, like it’s trying to lull me into something softer than adrenaline. Trees blur past the windows. The danger feels farther away with every mile, even if the consequences are lining up patiently at the safehouse.

Kai’s arm stays firm at my back, not holding me down, not pulling me in—just there. Constant. A quiet reminder that I’m not free-falling anymore. I let my head tip slightly toward him. Not enough to lean fully. Just enough to test it.

He adjusts without thinking, shoulder angling so I don’t pull at my side. Like he’s memorized my weight. Like he’s done this before, even if he hasn’t.

It shouldn’t feel this natural.