Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Distance

We didn't speak for two days.

Not because we were angry. The argument had burned itself out by the time we got back to the penthouse. There was nothing left to say. Volkov was gone. The trail was cold. We had everything we needed to destroy Henry and Julian, but the final piece—the connection to organized crime—was out of reach.

Adrian retreated to his office. I retreated to mine. We passed each other in the hallway. We nodded. We didn't stop.

Felix noticed. Of course he did.

"You two are fighting," he said.

"We're not fighting."

"You're not talking."

"We're busy."

He looked at me. He didn't believe me. But he didn't push.

I buried myself in work. I reviewed documents. I cross-referenced evidence. I built the case against Henry piece by piece. I didn't sleep. I didn't eat. I just worked.

On the second night, I found myself in the living room at midnight.

I couldn't sleep. The nightmares were back. The falling. The balcony. Julian's face. I'd wake up gasping, my hands clutching the sheets, my heart pounding. And then I'd get up. I'd walk to the living room. I'd sit in the dark.

Adrian was already there.

He was standing by the window. He didn't turn when I entered.

"You should be asleep," he said.

"So should you."

He didn't argue. He just stood there. I stood beside him.

We didn't speak. The city hummed outside. The clock ticked.

After a while, I said, "I'm sorry."

He turned. He looked at me.

"For what?"

"For pushing. For insisting on coming with you. For—"

"You don't have to apologize."

"I do."

He held my gaze. Neither of us spoke.

"I'm not good at this," I said. "Trusting people. Letting them in. I've spent so long protecting myself. I forgot how to do anything else."

Adrian was quiet. Then he said, "Neither am I."

I looked at him. He looked at me.

"I've spent fifteen years alone," he said. "I've spent fifteen years planning. I've spent fifteen years not caring if I lived or died. And then you walked into my office. And now I care. I care too much. And I don't know what to do with it."

I didn't respond. I didn't know how.

He didn't reach for me. He didn't take my hand. He just stood there.

"I'm not good at this either," he said. "But I'm trying."

I looked at him. He looked at me.

"I'm trying too," I said.

He nodded. He didn't smile. But something in his posture shifted. Something loosened.

We stood there. The city hummed outside. The wind picked up.

After a while, I walked back to my room. He didn't follow.

I closed the door. I lay down. I stared at the ceiling.

I didn't sleep. But I rested.

---

The next morning, I found Adrian in his office.

I didn't knock. I just walked in.

"We need to talk," I said.

He looked up. He set down his pen.

"About what?"

"About us. About what we're doing. About what happens after."

He leaned back in his chair. He studied me.

"What do you want to happen?"

I sat across from him. I folded my hands on his desk.

"I don't know," I said. "I've been so focused on the goal. On the revenge. On the endgame. I haven't thought about what comes after."

"And now?"

"Now I'm thinking about it."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "What do you see?"

I looked at him. He looked at me.

"I see you," I said. "I see us. I see something I didn't think I'd ever have."

He didn't respond. He just waited.

"I don't know what it is," I said. "I don't know if it's love. I don't know if it's partnership. I don't know if it's something else entirely. But I know I don't want it to end."

Adrian held my gaze. Neither of us spoke.

"I don't want it to end either," he said.

I looked at him. He looked at me.

"Then let's not let it," I said.

He nodded. He didn't reach for me. He didn't take my hand. He just nodded.

"Agreed," he said.

I stood. I walked to the door. I paused.

"Adrian."

He looked up.

"Thank you. For not giving up on me."

He didn't respond. He just looked at me. That same unnamed something crossed his face. This time, he didn't hide it.

"I'm not going to," he said.

I left.

---

That night, I found a book on my nightstand.

Not tea. Not coffee. A book. A novel I'd mentioned once, weeks ago, in passing. I'd said I wanted to read it. I'd forgotten I'd said it. He hadn't.

I picked it up. I read the first page. Then the second. Then the third.

I read until three in the morning. I finished it in two days. When I was done, I left it on his desk with a note.

Thank you. It was perfect.

He didn't mention it. But the next day, there was another book on my nightstand.

I almost smiled.