I slip my phone into my pocket and nod. “Yeah,” I say, stepping toward the door. “Let’s call it a night.”
As I walk back through the kitchen, I glance once more at the reflection in the darkened window. I look tired, sure—but not small. Not broken.
The noise is still there, but tonight, it doesn’t own me.
By the time I get home, the apartment smells like garlic and simmering tomatoes—Leo’s cooking. The tension that’s been coiled in my chest since the restaurant eases a little at the sound of clinking dishes. He’s in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, pacing while the sauce bubbles on the stove.
“Smells good,” I say, hanging my bag on the hook.
He glances up, his jaw tight, eyes shadowed. “You posted.”
Not a question. Just a statement. I nod, leaning against the counter. “Yeah. And before you ask, no—I’m not deleting it.”
Leo exhales hard, his shoulders tensing as he scrubs a palm over the back of his neck. “I wasn’t gonna tell you to delete it.” He looks at me then, the anger in his eyes undercut by something else. Fear. “I just wish you didn’t have to fight back. You shouldn’t have to.”
“I don’t have to,” I say quietly. “I want to.”
He studies me for a long moment, like he’s trying to decide whether to argue. Then he shakes his head and stirs the sauce instead. “You’re trending,” he says finally. “Half the comments love you. Half are garbage. Claire called me twice.”
“Let her call again.” I grab a spoon from the drawer, tasting the sauce. It’s perfect—rich, balanced, warm. “You cook angry well,” I tease, and the corner of his mouth lifts despite himself.
He leans back against the counter, watching me. “You’re calm,” he says, almost surprised.
“I’m tired,” I admit, setting the spoon down. “But I’m done letting people decide what story I’m part of. They want to spin it? Fine. I’ll just keep being louder by showing up.”
For a second, neither of us speaks. The only sound is the soft simmer of sauce, the rhythm of two people trying to figure out how to stay upright in the storm.
Then Leo says, “You’re stronger than I’ve ever seen you.” His voice is low, honest. “It scares the hell out of me.”
I meet his gaze, something soft breaking open inside me. “You don’t have to be scared for me.”
“I’m not,” he says. “I’m scaredofwhat they’ll do next.”
I reach across the counter, my hand brushing his. “Then we deal with it together.”
He nods once, slow. “Together.”
Dinner’s quiet after that, but it’s the kind of quiet that feels like safety, not silence.
It’s late when I wake up, the room washed in blue light. For a moment, I can’t tell what stirred me—then I see the glow coming from Leo’s side of the bed.
His phone.
The screen lights his face in flashes, unreadable in the dark. His brow is furrowed, shoulders tense. I blink the sleep from my eyes and whisper, “Leo?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at the screen, thumb frozen mid-scroll. When he finally looks at me, his expression is guarded. Careful. “Go back to sleep.”
Something cold threads down my spine. I push up onto one elbow. “What is it?”
He hesitates, then turns the phone just enough for me to catch the message preview before the screen goes dark again.
You can’t protect her forever, Voss.
The words linger in the air like smoke, poisonous and impossible to breathe around.
My pulse kicks hard. “Who?—”
“I don’t know,” he says, too quickly. His hand tightens around the phone, knuckles white. “Could be a burner. Could be anyone.”
