29. Justin
JUSTIN
Ihate that this is the happiest I’ve ever seen Rowan.
Hate it because I know what came before it.
Ten years of existing in a half-life. Ten years of carrying grief and fear like permanent organs.
Ten years of learning how to endure instead of live.
The fact that this—me, this room, this fragile pocket of safety—is what finally puts light in her eyes makes something ugly twist in my chest.
I want to be the one who makes her happy. I want to be the man who keeps her safe, who stands between her and the worst of the world, who becomes something steady she can lean into without always expecting pain. That part of me is honest. It’s instinctive.
But knowing she had to survive all of that alone first—knowing no one caught her when she fell—does something violent to my insides.
I don’t have a name for it. Rage doesn’t quite cover it.
Grief doesn’t either. It’s closer to guilt, even though I know that’s irrational.
Like I’m late to something that mattered too much to miss.
She’s sitting there now, knees tucked beneath her, watching me with a look that’s far too intense for how calm she appears. Like she’s measuring me. There’s hunger in her gaze—not for food—but for closeness, for connection, for me.
The look says she could devour me again and be satisfied.
I clear my throat and slide the plate a little closer to her, forcing myself to focus on the movement instead of the way my hands want to touch her.
The gesture is small. Practical. Necessary.
If I don’t root myself to something ordinary, I’ll reach for her instead—and once I do, I’m not sure I’ll remember how to let go.
She takes the plate, but her eyes never leave my face. That smile lingers, soft and knowing, like she’s already clocked the internal war I’m losing.
“So why isn’t anyone around?” she asks. “Don’t tell me you run this place on your own?”
I shake my head once. “No.”
I tell her about the way we operate—about the multiple sites, the constant rotation. How we’re never in one place long enough for anyone to map us, watch us, or settle into assumptions. We move before patterns can form. Before anyone can get comfortable.
It’s a system that’s kept us alive for years.
“And it’s not one we break,” I finish, because some rules exist for a reason.
She listens carefully, like she always does, absorbing more than I’m saying out loud. And I get the sense she understands exactly why a place like this can’t afford to stand still.
“What does a person have to do to join Goliath?” she asks, curiosity bright in her eyes. Like a bird tilting its head, testing the air.
“You offering your services?” I say, a smirk cutting across my mouth before I can stop it.
She shrugs lightly. “It sounds… interesting. What you do here.”
I exhale and lean back. “There’s an intensive vetting process. And generally, you don’t apply. You’re recruited. Brought in by a founding member.”
Her brows knit. “Founding member?”
“The people who built Goliath,” I say. “They had a rule from the start. You only bring in people who’ve lost someone to violent crime.
A disappearance. A kidnapping. A murder.
” I pause. “It worked, for a while. Then secrecy became a problem. Goliath doesn’t advertise.
No one knows how to find us. So eventually, we had to start looking for our own. ”
“And now?” she asks.
“It’s mostly the same,” I tell her. “But in certain cases, exceptions are made.”
She studies that for a second. “So… would someone like me be eligible? I lost my sister to a violent crime.”
I don’t answer right away.
“You’d meet the initial requirement,” I say carefully. “But there’s a lot more to it than that, Rowan.” I watch her closely. “Why would you even want this? You have a future. A law career.”
She goes still. She stops chewing, sets the plate down like she doesn’t trust her hands anymore. She takes a drink of water, swallows hard before she responds.
“One day,” she murmurs quietly, “I’ll tell you the whole story about Missy.” Her voice doesn’t shake, but it thins. “But knowing how her case was handled—how little justice there was—what it did to my family… I can’t believe we’re the only ones.”
She lifts her eyes to mine then. Steady. Certain.
“You’re right,” I say finally. My voice is low, steady. Certain in a way I don’t offer lightly. “You’re not the only ones.”
Her breath leaves her in a slow exhale, like the truth settles somewhere deep and painful and relieving all at once.
I don’t see a victim when I look at her. And for the first time in a long while, I’m not wondering how to stop the darkness. I’m wondering how far she’s willing to step into the light.
Rowan is curled on the bed, wrapped in one of the spare blankets, her knees drawn up, hair loose around her face. She looks smaller like this. Human in a way she hasn’t let herself be in a long time.
She’s watching me with that steady, thoughtful focus she always has, like she’s cataloguing my reactions, filing them away for later.
“Can I go home?” she asks.
The question is soft. Hopeful. Careful.
Something in my chest tightens.
I shake my head once. Slow. No hesitation. “Not yet.”
Her brow creases, but she doesn’t bristle. That matters. “Because of the man last night?”
“Because I’m not going to risk your safety if someone sent him to hurt you. Until we know for sure, you need to stay with me.”
She absorbs that without panic. It would seem she’s getting good at facing ugly truths head-on.
“And uni?” she asks.
“Not for a while,” I answer. “Uni will survive if you don’t go in for a few days.”
Her mouth presses into a thin line, but she doesn’t argue.
“So you’re saying this could be over in a few days?”
Somehow, I don’t think she’s referring to going home, but to us. Because there is an us; she just doesn’t know it yet.
“Do you trust my judgment?” I ask quietly.
She looks at me then, really looks at me. “You saved my life.”
I nod once. “Then trust me when I say this is about keeping you alive. Nothing else.” I clear my throat, shifting my weight. “If the church makes you uncomfortable—”
“It doesn’t,” she cuts in. “It’s ok… solid.”
“Still,” I continue, “you don’t have to stay here. We can go somewhere else. My place.”
Her eyes flick up, sharp now. Curious. “Your place?”
“I have a penthouse on the other side of the city,” I add, like it’s nothing.
Her eyebrow lifts. Slowly. “I didn’t realize vigilantism paid that well.”
A corner of my mouth quirks despite myself. “It pays well.”
“And?” she prompts.
I sigh. “And I’m a trust fund baby.”
That gets both eyebrows.
She studies me like she’s reassessing an entire story she didn’t realize she’d built in her head. “You don’t look like one.”
I snort softly. “What exactly does a trust fund baby look like?”
She shrugs, unapologetic. “Polished. Soft. Like they’ve never had their knuckles bleed for anything.”
The jealousy hits me out of nowhere—sharp, irrational, immediate.
“And how would you know?” I ask, too quickly.
She blinks, surprised. “Know what?”
“What a trust fund baby looks like,” I say.
There it is. Ugly. Exposed. Mine.
Her lips part, then curve into something almost amused. Almost gentle. “Justin… are you jealous?”
The word should embarrass me. Instead, it irritates me that she’s right.
“I don’t like the idea of anyone having ideas about you,” I admit, jaw tight.
Her expression softens. “That’s ironic,” she murmurs. “Considering I didn’t think anyone noticed me at all.”
I step closer before I can stop myself, the space between us shrinking naturally, like gravity has a say in this. “I notice you.”
The air shifts. Again.
She doesn’t step back.
“So,” she jokes to cover the weight of her words, “trust fund baby and vigilante king.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“King?”
“Careful, Rowan,” I murmur. “You’re getting very comfortable with that mouth of yours.”