I keep walking. “He wasn’t worth the cleanup.”
“That’s not your call.”
“I made it anyway.”
A pause. Then: “You’re slipping.”
I don’t answer.
“You wanna play the saint now, fine,” the voice continues, tone sharpening. “But if you ever pull that shit again, it won’t be you that pays for it.”
I stop walking.
“You threatening me?”
“Not you,” the voice says. “The shrink.”
My grip tightens around the phone.
“You so much as breathe in her direction?—”
“We wouldn’t have to. You’re the one that put a spotlight on her. Should’ve kept her clinical. Should’ve kept her boring. But now she’s leverage.”
I don’t realize I’ve crushed the phone until the pieces are digging into my palm, the broken shell snapped in half, screen spidered. I let the pieces fall to the sidewalk and breathe through the fury crawling up the back of my throat.
I know what this is. A line in the sand. Comply, or lose her.
The worst part is, I don’t even know what she is to me yet. Not really. A therapist, sure. A woman who looks me in the eyes like she’s not scared of what’s behind them. Someone who listens without flinching. Someone who should’ve run by now, and hasn’t.
But more than that, she’s… still.
And right now, I need that stillness like oxygen.
I don’t think. I move.
The walk from the Barrio to her apartment is just under two miles, but I make it in half the time, slipping through side streets and cutting corners, the city’s scent changing with every block. Salt, bread, smoke, stone. I know where she lives. Not becauseI asked. Because I watched. Once. Maybe twice. Not proud of it. Not ashamed either.
I stop in front of her building and stare up at the second window from the right, the one with the curtain always pulled slightly to the side like she’s halfway between hiding and hoping someone looks in.
The hallway smells like citrus cleaner and old pipes. I take the stairs two at a time, then stop at her door and just… stand there.
She opens it before I can knock. Like she felt me coming.
She’s in leggings and an oversized sweater, curls half pinned up, bare feet. No makeup. No defenses.
Her eyes widen, just slightly.
“Rafe.”
“I need to talk.”
She steps aside without asking why.
The living room is warm and smells like tea and jasmine. There’s a book open on the couch, pages spread like wings, and a playlist murmuring from the kitchen. I don’t sit. Just pace once across the rug and stop near the window, staring out like I might find the right words between the lamplight and the street below.
“Someone tried to make me do a job tonight,” I say finally. “I didn’t do it.”
She waits.
