Section 26
Proximity
Lucky
Having Gia Serrano in my apartment feels like inviting a thunderstorm to sit down and have coffee.
She sets her empty mug in the sink and leans against the counter like she owns it—which, honestly, checks out—and stares at her phone like it personally offended her. Diablo is at her feet, traitorously loyal, chin on his paws, eyes flicking between us like he’s waiting for snacks or violence.
I keep my distance.
Not because I don’t want to be closer.
Because I very much do.
She looks around my kitchen and scrunches up her nose. “You look like a man whose idea of seasoning is violence.”
“Wow,” I say. “And here I was thinking we were bonding.”
Her eyes flick to the stove. “What’s your specialty?”
“Stews,” I say without thinking. “Things you can leave alone for hours without them getting worse.”
She studies me like that answer matters.
It probably does.
“Huh,” she says. “That tracks.”
“With what?”
“With you,” she replies. “Low-maintenance. Long payoff.”
I blink.
That was… flirting. Right?
I choose carefully. “You say that like you’ve tested the theory.”
She arches a brow. “Have I?”
The air shifts. Just a notch. Enough that I feel it in my shoulders.
Diablo thumps his tail like a drumroll.
I clear my throat. “I should probably, uh… Check the perimeter again.”
“It’s a one bedroom apartment. And you’ve checked it three times,” she says.
“Yes,” I agree. “But this time I’ll do it while thinking about your tone just now.”
She snorts despite herself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Frequently,” I say. “It’s my brand.”
I move toward the window instead, giving her space without leaving. The street below looks calm. Too calm. That never lasts.
“You’re not like the others,” she says.
I turn back. “Others?”
“Men who volunteer to stand close,” she clarifies. “They usually want something.”
“I want something,” I say honestly.
She doesn’t flinch.
I shrug. “Eventually.”
“Appreciate the transparency,” she says.
“Learned it the hard way.”
Her gaze sharpens. “That sounds like a story.”
“Later,” I say gently. “Not a coffee story.”
She nods once, accepting the boundary. That earns her more points than she knows.
We lapse into a quiet that isn’t awkward. She scrolls. I listen. Diablo snores.
After a minute, she speaks again. “You’re being very… careful.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“That’s new for me,” I admit.
She tilts her head. “Why?”
I consider lying. Then decide against it.
“Because you’re not bored,” I say. “And you’re not hiding. And you don’t need me to fill space.”
Her eyes hold mine. Something thoughtful passes through them.
“Does that bother you?” she asks.
“No,” I say quickly. Then, more honestly, “It scares me a little.”
She smiles. “Good.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It’s honest.”
Fair.
She sets her phone down and steps closer—just one step, but it’s enough. Meeting me halfway.
“For the record,” she says, “I don’t invite people into my contingency plans.”
“I noticed.”
“And I don’t flirt at inappropriate times.”
I glance at the clock. “Is this an inappropriate time?”
She considers. “Probably.”
“Excellent,” I say. “I specialize in probably.”
She laughs then—quiet, genuine—and something in my chest loosens like it’s been holding a breath for years.
Diablo wakes up just enough to huff approvingly.
She looks down at him. “Don’t encourage him.”
“I can’t control the dog,” I say. “He’s his own man.”
She looks back at me. “So are you.”
I nod once. “Trying to be.”
We stand there for a beat longer than necessary, close but not touching, like the moment right before a decision.
She breaks it first, turning back toward the counter. “We’ll need to stay ahead of Frank.”
“And Bellini.”
“And everyone who thinks I’m distracted.”
I smile faintly. “They’re underestimating you.”
She glances at me again, eyes bright. “You’re enjoying this.”
I shrug. “I like competent chaos.”
“That’s a terrible preference.”
“Yet here we are.”
Her mouth curves. “Here we are.”
This has to be flirting.
The phone buzzes again. Work calls her back into orbit.
But before she turns away, she says quietly, “I’m glad you’re here.”
I don’t dare to reply.
Unfortunately, I’m not wearing my helmet, and my face has always been a liability.
“Oh, shut up,” she says, eyes narrowing as she clocks my expression. “Or I’ll shoot those dimples right off your face.”
“There she is,” I murmur. “Want me to put the helmet back on? Stave off violence?”
“The illusion is shattered anyway,” she sighs.
I perk up. “What illusion?”
“That you’re a fully grown adult.”
“Ouch,” I say. “Funny, coming from someone who’s about a hundred years old.”
Her eyes shrink to slits of pure, unfiltered malice.
“I’m thirty-six,” she says through gritted teeth.
“I meant in dog years,” I add quickly.
“That makes no sense.”
“Worth a shot,” I shrug. “Statistically, I had a fifty-fifty chance of survival.”
She stares at me for a long, measuring beat.
Then, very deliberately, picks up her phone.
“I rescind my earlier gratitude,” she says.
“No take-backs!”
“You’re on thin ice.”
I grin, entirely unable to stop myself. “Occupational hazard.”
“For who?”
“Anyone who lets me talk this much.”
Her mouth twitches. Just barely.
Diablo harrumphs, clearly proud of me.
“Don’t encourage him,” she says to the dog.
I lean down. “She’s lying. Please continue.”
She exhales through her nose, shaking her head, but there’s no heat in it now. Just… familiarity settling in faster than either of us planned.
Yeah.
This is the most danger I’ve been in possibly forever.