38 Kimmy
I couldn't sleep.
For the past two nights, I lay in the dark with my arms folded over my chest, pretending that the faint city noises outside were ocean waves.
Sometimes, I browsed through my favorite puppy reels or watched the spill of colored neon through the bars on the bedroom window until my eyes itched with exhaustion.
Mostly, though, I replayed what had happened between Seven and me. My mind kept looping the memory—the accidental collapse onto the floor, his hand at the back of my head, the sudden press of his body, the way his lips felt against mine.
It wasn't a memory that could be sanitized or edited.
It felt like a splinter lodged under the skin. Impossible to ignore, no matter how hard I tried.
Worse, every time I relived it, I expected to feel the old panic. The sense of wrongness. The freeze response that had defined my body since the penthouse party night.
But it never came.
Instead, there was a strange, volcanic heat—something so new and so consuming I didn't have a word for it. There was want, yes, and something dangerously close to happiness. But no fear.
That scared me more than anything.
Tonight was no different. When I checked the digital clock on the nightstand, it showed 3 AM.
I got up and walked to the window, hugging myself, and stared out at the city. I only dropped the shades halfway down to be able to see the view below. At this hour, the only movement came from out-of-service buses and late-shift delivery trucks. The whole world was running on fumes.
I pressed my forehead to the glass until it hurt.
Maybe if I stood there long enough, I'd be able to burn the memory out. Although I wasn't sure if I wanted to.
Instead, the restlessness kept growing. It pooled in my lungs and crawled down my arms, like I needed to do something or I'd go insane.
There was a sound from the main room. A soft, careful click as someone unlocked the front door.
I froze and listened to the sound of footsteps. I recognized them immediately.
Seven.
Even before I saw him, I somehow knew. His presence filled the space like new oxygen.
He didn't turn on any lights as I pulled the bedroom door open and shuffled into the main room. The only illumination came from the city glow in the windows.
His boots made two dull thuds on the concrete, then he stopped right in the center of the room. His body was framed in negative space as he looked in my direction. His face was covered again, and I tried to remember it, but there were only fragments.
I stared back. Our eyes met, but no words appeared.
For a long time, he didn't move. He just stood there, glaring at me, then he pulled out a yellow envelope from underneath his leather jacket and dropped it on the table with a flat smack.
After he walked over to the window and pressed a palm to the glass.
He didn't turn around.
I counted to three and crept a little closer, feet bare on the cold floor.
He didn't react to the sound of me approaching. He remained at the window, watching the city, his back to me.
I sat down on a chair by the table, pulling my knees up. For a while, neither of us said anything. I took it as a sign that he didn't want to discuss the kiss. He'd never called me back.
Eventually, I broke the silence. "Is this the information on Valmont? In the envelope?"
He kept his face to the window. "No."
"Then what?"
He finally turned, and the city lights caught the edge his face. He looked tired, the skin under his eyes gone gray, the exhaustion lines around them a little deeper.
"My real identity." His gaze locked on the envelope as if it were a bomb.
I felt something shift in the room.
"Does it…" I trailed off, unsure how to phrase it without sounding like an idiot. "Does it have your real name?"
"I don't know. I haven't looked," he admitted.
"Why not?"
"I thought I wanted to know. But now…" He stopped. "I'm scared, even though I don't have any fears." He chuckled bitterly. "Isn't it strange?"
"If you want, I could do it for you," I offered, voice as gentle as I could make it.
He stiffened, and I realized my error.
"No," he said, not harsh, but firm. "Not yet."
The silence that followed was loud.
Then he walked over to the table and settled into a chair too.
We sat across from each other in the half-dark, city lights slashing the walls and ceiling with faint illumination.
He was a silhouette, and I was nothing but nerves and confusion.
I didn't know where we stood as far as the kiss went and I needed to talk about it.
However, the logical part of me understood this wasn't the time or the place.
He seemed to be going through some personal crisis.
Still, I wanted to reach across the table and touch the side of his face. I wanted to take the envelope, break the seal, and read him his own story.
Only I knew better.
Some things had to wait.
So instead, I sat back and watched the way his fingers drummed an uneven beat on the tabletop. This had never happened before.
"I'm here if you change your mind," I offered, and that was all.
He nodded once, and I realized this was the closest thing to trust I was ever going to get from him.
For now, it was enough.
The silence kept thickening. I was afraid if I spoke more, I'd break something fragile between us. Maybe the thing that let us be in the same room, after everything that had happened.
"I found a way to finish the job," Seven said without any warning.
The shift was so abrupt I almost thought I'd imagined it.
He got up and paced back and forth along the far wall, every step measured, like he was counting off a punishment. "I met a woman who gave me information about Valmont's secret hobby."
"What kind of hobby?" I knew he didn't mean real hobby, like painting or stamp collection.
"He engages in questionable activities of a sexual nature in a private club." Seven stopped, eyes flicking to me. "Getting inside to record the evidence is the next step. We can release it to the public after if you want. Or do whatever else you deem appropriate."
My pulse skyrocketed. Everyone knew Caius Valmont was married to Celine Vandermere for a reason. Politics. If what Seven said was true and the footage were to leak online, Valmont's career would be ruined. I felt a spike of adrenaline at the thought.
"Problem is," Seven continued while walking in circles, "security at that place is next-level.
And there are no cameras inside. So we can't tap in their system.
We can't transmit video either. They have jammers.
I need to get in and make the videos myself.
Physically. But I haven't found the way yet.
Anyone who enters the club is searched and checked against their database.
And since this isn't a place that has a rotation of hundreds of people every day, they'll be suspicious of me. "
"Then what do we do?"
He didn't answer at first. I let the silence hang. "I'm still looking for ways to get inside without being seen. Or we might need to wait," he finally supplied.
I swallowed. "For what?"
"For Valmont to slip. For the right moment."
It was the answer I least wanted to hear.
"How long?"
"He knows someone is after him. He also knows you are somehow connected to this. He just doesn't have the full picture. That's why he's ramped up the paranoia. It might be weeks or even months before he comes up for air and before the security at that place loosens."
"Is that the only way?"
"The only one I can think of for now until I find other access."
"My mom returns in a week."
He nodded. "I remember."
"If this isn't over by then—"
"I know. I'm trying to come up with other solutions."
My mind spun, panic and fear and anxiety all at once. And then that breaking point I'd been waiting for came. Too fast. I didn't even realize it at first.
"What if I try?" I pushed up from the chair.
He halted and spun to look at me. "Try what?"
"Getting into the club and recording."
"No," he said immediately as if my words burned him.
"Hear me out."
He shook his head. "Absolutely not."
"They know you're a man. They'll be expecting you no matter the disguise," I argued.
"But I'm a woman. I can make myself look different.
A little makeup and I'll be unrecognizable.
I can pretend to be a new hire. Valmont will never suspect me.
" The crazy ideas in my head started coming out of my mouth like vomit.
"He thinks I'm scared. And I'm not anymore.
" It was a lie. I was scared, but not for myself.
I was scared for Seven. He'd been putting his life on the line for me far too long now.
I couldn't let this drag out for much longer.
I didn't want anything to happen to him.
"No," he repeated stubbornly. "You're not trained for this. You're not even—" He stopped. "It's not happening."
"I've been training with you."
"That was self-defense. Not infiltration."
"I'm doing this," I raised my voice. "If not for me, then for the people around me who are in danger."
He froze. I thought for a second he'd snap at me, but instead, he went so still it terrified me.
"People get killed for less than what you're talking about."
"I've already been killed once," I snapped.
"You know that. They took my dignity and my self-respect three years ago, then they made it impossible to punish them, and then they ruined my life.
But I'm still here. Half dead. And I'm tired of it.
I need to see this through. I need to make sure they don't come for my family.
" I paused to let my breathing even out.
I couldn't remember when I was this angry.
"First, my mom. Next, it could be my foster sisters, then their partners.
No, I'm not doing this whole waiting in the safehouse thing anymore. "
He looked at me, really looked, and I saw that same spark from the other night, the thing that intimidated and fascinated me.
"I won't let you do it," he said.
"You think I can't handle a fucking nightclub?"