"I should go," I say, even though leaving feels wrong. "Let you process everything. Figure out next steps."
"Will you—" She stops, seems uncertain whether to finish the question.
"Will I what?"
"Check in tonight? After your work? I don't need debrief or strategy discussion. Just—" She doesn't finish, but I understand what she's asking.
"I'll text you tonight. Let you know what Lucien's investigation found." I stand, gather my laptop, and move toward the door. "And Lana? About what happened—"
"We're not apologizing again."
"I wasn't going to apologize. I was going to say I'm glad we were honest about it. That feels better than pretending."
Something in her expression softens. "It does feel better than pretending."
I leave her apartment at 11:39 AM with the phantom sensation of her lips against mine and the uncomfortable knowledge that I just made everything between us exponentially more complicated.
The walk back to my apartment takes nineteen minutes. I spend them thinking about what Elias is going to say when I tell him we kissed, about what Lucien is going to read in my facewhen I brief him on Ezra's investigation, about whether honest complication is better than dishonest simplicity.
By the time I reach my apartment, I've decided honesty is always better. Even when honest means admitting I'm in over my head with someone I'm supposed to be protecting.
Even when honest means acknowledging that the kiss wasn't a mistake, just terrible timing.
Even when honest means accepting that waiting until the legal situation resolves is going to be the hardest professional constraint I've ever maintained.
My phone buzzes at 11:58 AM. Text from Lana:Thank you for being honest. For not pretending. For kissing me back.
I respond:Thank you for the same. And for not regretting it.
I don't regret it. I'm just terrified of what it means.
Me too. But we'll figure it out.
Promise?
Promise.
I set down the phone and stare at my ceiling, counting the hours until my meeting with Lucien, counting the ways this could destroy everything we've carefully built, counting the reasons why kissing Lana Pope was simultaneously the best and worst decision I've made in years.
The count keeps coming up the same: terrible timing, worse judgment, absolutely worth it.
And that realization terrifies me more than any threat Ezra Pope could manufacture.
CHAPTER 12: LANA
The apartment feels emptier after Jax leaves. Not the comfortable emptiness I've cultivated since Gabriel died—the kind where being alone means safety rather than isolation. This emptiness carries the ghost of his presence: the indent on the couch where he sat, the faint scent of whatever soap he uses, the phantom sensation of his mouth against mine.
I touch my lips without meaning to. The kiss happened twenty-three minutes ago, and I can still feel the pressure of it, the way we both leaned in without planning to, the moment when careful negotiation dissolved into want that bypassed every rational boundary we'd constructed.
We shouldn't have done that.
We definitely shouldn't have done that.
I can't bring myself to regret it.
My phone sits on the coffee table where I left it, Jax's last text still visible on the screen:Promise?The single word carries more weight than it should. We promised to figure this out. Promised to be honest. Promised to wait until the legal chaos resolves before deciding whether this attraction is real or just proximity making terrible decisions feel inevitable.
But waiting feels impossible when I can still taste him.
