23. Chapter 23 #2
Her shoulders dropped.
When she finally looked at me, the anger was still there, but so was something worse.
Understanding.
She knew why I was doing it.
That made it easier for both of us to excuse.
“I know you’re scared,” she said.
“I’m not—”
“Don’t.”
I stopped.
Her gaze held mine.
“You don’t have to lie to me about that.”
The words landed softly.
I released her wrist and slid my hand down until our fingers linked.
“I’m fucking terrified.”
“I know.”
She stepped closer.
I kissed her damp forehead.
For that night, it was enough.
By the second week, it wasn’t.
***
The argument started over her office.
Most of our worst arguments did.
I arrived at her apartment just after six and found her at the kitchen table with her laptop open, appointment schedule pulled up on the screen.
“I’m going in tomorrow,” she said.
No greeting.
No warm-up.
My entire body locked.
“No.”
Her eyes lifted.
I heard myself.
Still couldn’t stop.
“Ghost found two more surveillance gaps today. We don’t know who’s been inside that building.”
“My office has been swept.”
“Once.”
“Twice.”
“Not by me.”
Caroline closed the laptop.
The quiet click was more threatening than if she had slammed it.
“I have canceled eleven in-person appointments.”
“Good.”
Her expression hardened.
I knew immediately that I had chosen the wrong word.
“I have patients in crisis.”
“They can see someone else.”
“Some of them won’t.”
“That’s not your responsibility.”
Her chair scraped back.
I stood too.
“Don’t,” she said.
“Don’t what?”
“Use my own language against me because you think it’ll end the argument.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“It absolutely is.”
I felt my control slipping.
“I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“And I am trying to remain a person.”
The words stopped me.
Caroline came around the table.
For two weeks, she had accommodated me.
Changed routes.
Accepted security.
Worked from home.
Texted when she arrived somewhere.
Texted when she left.
Let men from the club sit outside her building.
Let me install cameras.
Let me check locks twice before bed.
I had taken every inch she offered and convinced myself I needed another.
“You don’t ask anymore,” she said.
“That’s bullshit.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“What time am I allowed to leave tomorrow?”
My jaw tightened. “That’s not fair.”
“What route am I allowed to take?”
“Caroline.”
“Can I stop for coffee?”
“Stop.”
“Do I need to send a photograph so you know I’m actually there?”
“I said stop.”
My voice cracked through the apartment.
Silence followed.
Caroline went still.
The fear on her face lasted less than a second.
I saw it anyway.
Everything inside me turned to ice.
She wasn’t afraid I would hit her.
I knew that.
But I had made her brace.
Me.
The man who kept telling himself every controlling decision was about preventing someone else from hurting her.
I stepped back.
“Fuck.”
Caroline looked away.
I dragged both hands over my face.
“I’m sorry.”
She said nothing.
“I’m so fucking sorry.”
“I know.”
“No.” My voice broke. “Don’t do that.”
Her gaze returned to mine.
“Don’t understand me so much that we pretend this is okay.”
Something in her expression cracked.
I forced myself to look at what I had done.
Not just tonight.
All of it.
The cameras.
The schedules.
The constant checking.
Every decision I had made before asking her.
“I’m doing it again,” I said.
Caroline’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Doing what?”
“Turning fear into control.”
The admission tasted like blood.
“I spent years telling myself violence kept people safe. Then therapy taught me that controlling everything around me wasn’t the same as being safe.” I laughed once, bitter and empty. “Now I’ve just found a prettier excuse.”
Her eyes filled.
“Colt.”
“I’m using protection to justify ownership.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
I looked at her.
“You told me the first fucking night that you didn’t know where caring ended and treating me began.” My throat tightened. “I didn’t realize I had the same problem.”
Caroline’s face changed.
“I don’t know where protecting you ends and controlling you begins.”
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then she crossed the space between us.
I stepped back.
“Don’t.”
She stopped.
“I don’t deserve you comforting me because I scared you.”
“This isn’t therapy, Colt.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
The question hit hard.
Caroline’s arms folded around herself.
“I am angry with you.”
“You should be.”
“I am also scared.”
My chest collapsed.
“Not of you hurting me,” she said quickly. “Of disappearing inside this. Of waking up one day and realizing every decision I make is based on whether it triggers your fear.”
I looked down.
“That’s what nearly destroyed me before,” she continued. “Living inside someone else’s needs until I couldn’t tell which choices were mine anymore.”
“I know.”
“No.” Her voice sharpened. “You know the story. I need you to understand what it means here.”
I forced myself to meet her eyes.
She was right.
Again.
“You can’t decide unilaterally that I’m not working,” she said. “You can’t choose what activities are safe without asking me. You can’t turn me into someone who needs your permission to live because you’re terrified something might happen.”
“I know.”
“And protection isn’t ownership.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
My mouth closed.
Caroline’s breathing was uneven.
So was mine.
I waited.
Finally, she said, “Ask me.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“Ask me what I’m willing to do tomorrow.”
The request should have been easy.
It wasn’t.
Every instinct inside me screamed that discussion created variables. Variables created vulnerabilities.
I swallowed.
“What are you willing to do tomorrow?”
Some of the tension left her shoulders.
“I’m willing to take a security detail.”
I nodded.
“I’m willing to use the underground entrance after Ghost sweeps it.”
Another nod.
“I’m willing to move my last appointment so I’m home before dark.”
My chest tightened. “And if something changes?”
“You call me.”
“Not the detail?”
“You can call them too. But you call me.”
I looked at her.
“Before you change my plans,” she said. “Before you decide what I can handle. Before you turn me into a problem you solve instead of a person standing beside you.”
The words cut deep because they were exactly right.
“I can do that.”
“Can you?”
I almost answered automatically.
Stopped.
“I can try.”
Caroline studied me.
Then nodded.
“That’s all I’m asking.”
The silence afterward felt scraped raw.
I didn’t know whether to leave.
Didn’t know whether touching her would be welcome or another thing I took without asking.
So I stayed where I was.
Caroline watched me.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying not to make another decision for you.”
Something flickered across her face.
Pain.
Affection.
Maybe both.
“You can ask,” she said.
My throat tightened.
“Can I touch you?”
The question came out rougher than I intended.
Caroline’s eyes closed briefly.
When they opened, the anger was still there.
So was the answer.
“Yes.”
I crossed the room slowly.
She met me halfway.
The second her arms wrapped around my waist, something inside me broke open. I buried my face against her hair and held her carefully, not because she was fragile but because I finally understood the difference.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“I’m going to fuck this up again.”
“Probably.”
A startled laugh escaped me.
Her face pressed against my chest.
“So are you,” I said.
“Almost certainly.”
I tightened my arms around her.
“That’s a terrible therapeutic outlook.”
“Good thing I’m not your therapist.”
The words went through me.
I pulled back enough to see her face.
She looked exhausted. Angry. Beautiful.
Mine.
No.
Not mine.
With me.
The distinction mattered.
My hand rose to her cheek and stopped before touching.
Caroline leaned into it.
The permission in that tiny movement hit harder than any declaration could have.
“I spent the last two weeks thinking if I planned enough, watched enough, controlled enough, I could guarantee nothing happened to you.”
“You can’t.”
“I know.”
Her eyebrow lifted.
I almost smiled.
“I’m learning.”
“That I believe.”
My thumb moved along her cheek.
“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”
The words came out raw.
Caroline’s hand closed around my wrist.
“Then don’t lose me by trying so hard to keep me.”
Fuck.
I closed my eyes.
Her forehead touched mine.
For a long moment, we stood there with the remains of the argument around us.
Nothing magically fixed.
No sweeping promises.
Just the truth.
I opened my eyes.
“I want you.”
Caroline’s breath caught.
The admission surprised me with its intensity.
Not because wanting her was new.
Because this was different from the desperate hunger that had followed the hospital. Different from needing proof she was alive.
I wanted the woman who had just fought with me.
The woman who refused to disappear inside my fear.
The woman angry enough to tell me exactly where I was failing and brave enough to stay for the answer.
Her gaze dropped to my mouth.
“Colt.”
“I know you’re still pissed.”
“I am.”
“You should be.”
“I’m not sleeping with you to end an argument.”
“I don’t want you to.”
Her eyes returned to mine.
I let my hand fall from her face.
The loss of contact hurt, but I needed her to know I meant it.
“If you want space, I’ll go.”
Caroline stared at me.
Then she caught the front of my shirt.
My pulse slammed.
“This is not me forgiving you because you kissed me.”
“I haven’t kissed you.”
“Yet.”
The word changed the air.
My hands stayed at my sides.
Caroline noticed.
Something softened in her expression.
“Ask me,” she whispered.
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“Can I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
I barely had time to breathe before she pulled me down.
The kiss wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t a neat resolution or proof that the argument no longer mattered.
It was two weeks of fear.
Two weeks of wanting her while watching every doorway.
Two weeks of waking beside her and wondering how long I would be allowed to keep doing it.
My hands found her waist, but I forced myself to slow down.
Caroline made an impatient sound against my mouth and pulled me closer.
I broke the kiss just enough to breathe.
“Still angry?”
“Yes.”