Chapter 21
AVA - DON'T FALL
The fundraiser was over, the heels were off, and the red dress was in a wrinkled heap at the bottom of the laundry basket like it had never ruined my entire night.
Or saved it.
I wasn’t sure which yet.
Remi had crashed hard on the couch as soon as we got home, soft snores echoing through the apartment like proof that she, at least, could sleep after everything that had gone down.
Me? I was wide awake.
And pissed off about it.
The thing was dancing with Harlan shouldn’t have mattered. It shouldn’t have made my blood heat up like a live wire under my skin or made me feel like maybe someone could hold me without needing to fix me or claim me or pull me apart.
But it did. And that was the problem.
Because attraction, I could handle. Flirting, I could ignore. But that moment, where he looked at me like I was something he wanted to protect and not own, that got under my skin.
Worse? It stayed on that dance floor like my traitorous body was ignoring my commands.
I had pulled my blanket tighter around me and stared at the ceiling like it owed me answers.
He said he wanted honesty. Said he wanted me.
But I’ve heard things like that before, from men who didn’t understand what it meant to want a woman who’d already been burned alive by the system. They liked the idea of women like me. Until the reality came with fire and fallout.
So, I waited for the fallout. Expected it.
But it didn’t come.
Instead, over the following weeks, I started seeing him everywhere.
At the coffee shop down the block, when the wind still bit sharp enough to make your eyes water, he was behind me in line.
Twice. And both times, he ordered the same thing, black coffee, splash of cream, nothing fancy, and pretended not to notice when I muttered under my breath about clichés.
The second time, he slid a blueberry muffin onto my tray without asking, muttering something about “keeping fire sprites from passing out in courtrooms.” I ate it.
Every bite. Hated him for knowing I would.
At the courthouse steps, where the frost had been replaced by rain, he caught my eye from across the marble stairs. Didn’t call out. Didn’t wave. Just tipped that ridiculous cowboy hat like the whole thing was some kind of private joke between us. And damn my traitor heart, I almost smiled.
Once at the shelter, when the air was slow to warm and didn't get the memo that we were in spring. It was still sharp with winter, and I found him lugging in boxes of canned food and blankets. He didn’t stay for recognition.
Didn’t ask for thanks. Just gave Remi a nod, gave me a look I pretended I didn’t feel in my stomach, and left like it was just another errand on his way home.
And then at the station, twice, catching me at the end of a long shift. He never lingered long. Just a simple, “Get some rest, Sinclair,” like it was both an order and a wish.
And every single time?
Remi.
The traitor.
“Oh, weird,” she said that first morning, smirking as he walked up beside her at the coffee counter. “Didn’t know he was stopping by.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
She just smiled into her cup. “You two looked good on that dance floor.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You’re not subtle.”
“Maybe I’m not trying to be.”
It became a rhythm. He’d appear. She’d beam like she’d personally orchestrated the universe. And I’d scowl hard enough to bruise.
And damn him, he never pushed. Never cornered. Just left space. Little gestures, quiet hellos, half-smiles that lingered too long. The kind of presence that doesn’t storm through a door, but leaves it cracked open just in case.
Like with every stupid action, he was saying I am here and I’m not going anywhere.
And dammit, it worked.
By the time the first real warmth of spring pushed through, when the trees along Main Street were starting to bud and the air smelled faintly of damp earth, I realized I was looking for him in crowds. Expecting him in places he had no business being.
Which is why, when my phone buzzed one night with a text that read:
Harlan
Dinner. Give me one hour. I’ll come to you. No pressure.
…I stared at it for a solid ten minutes before responding.
Deleted what I typed. Rewrote it. Deleted it again.
Glared at Remi across the room. And without even knowing what it was for, she shot me one of her awkward winks and grinned like a lunatic.
I told myself it wasn’t a date. Just… information gathering. Clarification. A truce. Right. Sure.
He wanted me to say yes.
And part of me wanted to say no.
Because saying yes meant opening a door that might not close again. And I’d spent years learning how to lock things tight. The locks and bolts, and chains might as well be rusted over by now.
But the truth? I was tired of locks.
Tired of being lonely and angry.
So, I typed:
Fine. But if you bring me flowers, I’m kicking you out.
He sent back a thumbs-up. Then a second text:
Harlan
You like tacos?
I rolled my eyes and muttered, “God help me,” into the room.
Which earned me a rare Remi cackle.
She made her way over and grabbed my phone without permission.
“What kind of psychopath doesn’t like tacos?” she demanded, then tossed it back at me.
“Probably Sergeant Voss.”
Remi wrinkled her nose in disgust, and I tried and failed to kick her away.
Then I stared back down at the phone in my lap and the not-date date I had somehow just agreed to.
I replied with a thumbs-up emoji and sighed.
Because the walls were still up. Reinforced. Concrete and steel.
But I was letting someone knock on the front door.
And that scared the hell out of me.
Don’t fall. Not yet.
Just lean a little closer to the edge.
But don’t fall.