One Week Later
Ronan
The coffee is terrible.
I drink it anyway.
Lena sits across from me at the small café overlooking the harbor, sunlight catching in her hair, ring flashing every time she lifts her cup. She’s scrolling through her tablet, relaxed in a way I’ve never seen her before.
Not alert.
Not tracking.
Just here.
“You know,” she says without looking up, “we probably should talk about a date.”
I arch a brow. “You proposing logistics now?”
She finally looks up, smiling. “I like plans.”
“I like results,” I counter.
She laughs, and the sound does something permanent to my chest.
I reach across the table and lace my fingers through hers, grounding myself in the warmth, the reality of this moment. No enemies. No clocks. No blood on my hands.
Just us.
“You good?” she asks quietly.
I nod. “Better than good.”
Because for the first time in my life, I’m not wondering what I’ll lose next.
I’m thinking about what we’ll build.