Chapter 43
Alex
The manor is too quiet tonight. Not the usual kind, but the kind that comes with isolation, with distance from the world. This is different, thicker and weighted. Like the house is holding its breath.
I stand at the far end of the hallway, watching the soft glow of light spill from beneath her door.
She didn’t lock it again. We’ve gone to bed in separate rooms almost every night that she’s been staying here. Then once Dad’s gone to bed, I make my way to her room.
It’s a small thing. Most people wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t understand what it costs her to leave that barrier open, even a fraction.
But I do. Because I was the one who taught her to need it.
My jaw squares, the thought settling in like something sharp under the skin. I push off the wall and walk past her door without stopping.
That, too, is deliberate. Trust isn’t something I get to take. It’s something she gives, carefully, reluctantly, and piece by piece.
And I don’t get to ruin that again.
The kitchen smells like melted butter when I step inside.
She’s already there. Of course she is. Liv stands at the stove, hair pulled back in a loose tie that’s already slipping, a few strands falling around her face.
She’s wearing one of the oversized shirts she claimed from my old room.
The soft fabric hangs loose and stretched around her frame, sleeves hanging to her elbows.
Bare legs. No shoes. So domestic, so normal. She could look just as comfortable dressed like this in her apartment, mine, or in a future home. Just the two of us, or maybe three, her belly swollen with my-
“You’re hovering again,” she says without turning around. Good thing too, because that means that she didn’t see me jump when she pulled me out of my thoughts so suddenly.
I lean against the doorway, arms crossing loosely. “I’m observing.”
“That’s just a prettier word for hovering.”
A faint smirk pulls at my mouth. “You always this hostile when someone appreciates your cooking?”
She glances over her shoulder with sharp eyes, but there’s something softer underneath it now. Something that wasn’t there before.
“Depends,” she eases out. “Are you planning to critique it after?”
“Not if I want to eat.”
That earns a quiet huff of amusement, small but real.
I watch her for a moment longer than necessary, the way she moves around the kitchen, efficient and controlled. Every motion is purposeful and measured.
Even here, she’s still aware, still ready and resilient. That’s the word that keeps coming back to me. Not fragile, not broken, but resilient.
She shouldn’t have had to be. And yet, she is.
“Sit,” she says, nodding toward the table. “Or you’re going to make me nervous.”
“You? Nervous?”
“Sit, Alex.”
I push off the doorway and do as I’m told.
The table is already set with two plates, two glasses, and silverware haphazardly. Like she plopped them down in a rush.
She brings the food over a minute later and I’m not at all surprised. “Boxed mac and cheese,” I say smiling.
“We’re not talking about it,” she asserts as she sets the plate in front of me.
I look up at her. “About what?”
“Anything,” she replies, meeting my gaze. “No case. No investigation. No… anything like that.” Her voice falters just slightly on the last part.
I nod once. “Okay.”
She studies me for a second, like she’s waiting for me to argue. I don’t. That seems to surprise her more than it should.
“Okay?” she repeats.
“I can follow directions.”
“That’s new.”
“Selective,” I correct.
That almost pulls a smile out of her.
We eat in silence at first, not uncomfortably just… quiet.
The food is good. Better than good. I’d forgotten how good boxed mac and cheese can be. I don’t say it right away, but she notices anyway.
“You’re doing that thing again,” she points out.
“What thing?”
“Where you pretend you don’t have opinions.”
I set my fork down. “It’s good.”
“Just good?”
I hold her gaze. “It’s very good.”
Something shifts in her expression, subtle, but there. It shouldn’t matter this much, but it does.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
She tells me about a call she had earlier in the week, careful to keep it surface level, just enough detail to share without crossing into the territory of trying to avoid conversation.
I listen and respond accordingly watching the way her voice changes when she talks about work. She sounds more grounded and more certain. It steadies something in her, gives her back control.
“You didn’t hesitate,” I say when she finishes.
Her eyes flick to mine. “What?”
“While responding to that call,” I clarify. “You made decisions quickly.”
She shrugs, looking back down at her plate. “That’s the job.”
“It’s more than that.”
She doesn’t respond right away.
“You handled it,” I continue. “That matters.”
Her grip on her fork tightens slightly. “I don’t always feel like I am,” she admits.
I lean back in my chair studying her. “You are,” I say simply.
Her gaze lifts again, searching mine like she’s trying to decide if I mean it. I don’t look away. Because I do mean it, every bit of it.
Later, she drifts toward the living room, curling up on the far end of the couch with a blanket pulled loosely around her.
Winter is around the corner, and nights are now brisk enough that she can feel it, even if she doesn’t say it out loud.
But I can tell; it’s in the way she behaves when she gets back from.
She climbs out of the car and heads straight to her room to change into something layered.
I’m enjoying watching her transformation into a blanket shielded, cozy-searching version of herself.
I stay where I am for a few minutes longer, clearing the table and giving her space. Another choice, another line I don’t cross.
When I finally join her, I take the opposite end of the couch. Not close enough to touch but close enough to feel her presence.
The TV is on, but neither of us is watching it. The newscaster drones on about sports like either of us cares.
Her breathing slows gradually, tension easing out of her frame in small increments. Safe enough, for now.
My gaze drifts to her hands, resting lightly against the fabric of the blanket. The same hands that stabilize patients, that fight to keep people alive. The same hands I’ve held, threaded my fingers through, had wrapped around my co- I cut the thought off before it can finish forming.
Guilt is a constant now, low and persistent, like a hum I can’t shut off.
But tonight, it’s louder, because she’s shifted emotionally the last few days.
She’s letting me back in through tiny increments.
But each step results in her pulling back afterwards, like she’s still worried about whether she should let me close again.
My jaw hardens, eyes shifting to the darkened window across the room.
I didn’t hesitate to take that sample and run her DNA; that’s the worst part.
I made the call quickly and efficiently, like I do with everything else.
I collected the sample, had it run, and analyzed the results.
Like it was something simple, cold, clinical, and necessary. That’s what I told myself.
But sitting here now, watching her, seeing the way she’s starting to let her guard slip, inch by inch… it doesn’t feel necessary. It feels even more like a violation. Like I took something she didn’t even realize she needed to protect.
My hands curl slightly against my knees. She trusted me enough to stay, to eat with me, to not lock her door. And I-
“Stop thinking so loudly.”
Her voice cuts through the spiral.
I glance over. “I wasn’t aware that was a thing.”
“It is when your face does that,” she says, shifting slightly to look at me.
“What does it do?”
“Tightens,” she replies. “Like you’re trying to hold something in place.”
Accurate. I huff out a quiet breath. “Occupational hazard.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
She studies me, waiting. I feel the weight of it, the choice sitting right there. Tell her. Don’t tell her. Protect her. Control the outcome. That’s the instinct. That’s always been the instinct. Control isn’t the same as protection. And forcing choices-
I exhale slowly.
“I made a decision,” I say finally. “Recently.”
Her expression shifts, attention sharpening. “About the case?”
“About you.”
That stills her completely. “What kind of decision?” she asks carefully.
I hold her gaze. “The kind I don’t get to make anymore.”
Silence stretches between us.
“You’re going to have to be more specific than that,” she says.
“I’ve been… directing things,” I admit. “Controlling variables and outcomes.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
“No,” I say. “It shouldn’t.” I shift forward slightly, resting my forearms on my knees. “But I’m not doing that anymore,” I continue.
She watches me, clearly skeptical. “You’re just… stopping?”
“I’m choosing to.”
“Why?”
Because I already crossed a line. Because I took something without asking. Because if I keep going like this, I won’t be any different than the people we’re hunting. The thoughts stack up, heavy and unrelenting.
“Because you deserve a say,” I assert instead. “In what happens next. In where you go. What you do.”
Her gaze flickers, something unreadable passing through it. “And you’re okay with that?” she asks.
No. Not even a little. “I will be,” I accept.
“That’s not very convincing.”
“It’s honest.”
That, at least, lands. She leans back slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around herself. “What changed?” she asks.
I hold her gaze for a long moment. “Perspective,” I say finally.
It’s not a lie. Just not the whole truth. She seems to accept that, at least for now.
“Okay,” she says quietly. Okay. Another small thing. Another piece.
Later, after she’s gone to bed, door still unlocked, I move through the manor alone.
The quiet returns, heavier now and more deliberate.
I head off to the precinct for a while. Screens glow to life at a touch with maps, data points, and timelines.
The investigation doesn’t stop just because we needed a moment to breathe.
If anything, it’s accelerating. Patterns are tightening and connections are becoming clearer.
I pull up the latest intel, cross-referencing locations, timestamps, and known associates.
There. A cluster. Not random. Never random.
My jaw sets as I zoom in, isolating the overlap. “This is where you’re slipping,” I mutter under my breath. The network is careful and layered, but not perfect. No one ever is. A new file opens showing surveillance notes, partial IDs, and movement patterns.
I update what I can, and flag what needs confirmation. It’s procedural, precise, and controlled. This is where I excel. Where I don’t hesitate. Where I don’t-
My hand stills on the keyboard. Because this is also where I made the decision. The test. The result. The information that could have broken us, broken Liv.
I lean back in the chair, dragging my hand down my face. “You don’t get to control this,” I remind myself quietly. Not her, not this.
The only thing I can control now is what I do next.
My gaze shifts back to the screen and to the cluster of data points tightening into something actionable.
“We’re getting close,” I murmur. Close to them, close to the truth, and close to whatever this is going to become. And when it breaks, it’s not going to be quiet.