Instead, I pull up his contact, type a message: I'm home. Safe. Going to bed soon.
His response comes within a minute: Good. Sleep well.
That could be the end of it—professional check-in, boundaries maintained. But then another text arrives:
Thank you for letting me know. I saw you left with a bag earlier and wasn't sure if you were coming back tonight.
The text is simple enough—he saw me leave with a bag, wasn't sure about my plans. Not possessive or controlling. Just... aware. The way someone who's watching is inevitably aware.
I could leave it there. Professional acknowledgment, boundaries maintained.
Instead, I type:Changed my mind about staying away. Turns out I'd rather be here.
His response takes longer this time:I understand that feeling.
I set my phone on the nightstand before I can read more into the words than they probably carry. Change into sleep clothes, take my pill that barely works anymore, climb into bed.
But the truth sits in my chest heavier than the medication: coming home instead of staying at Solange's was a choice. Not just about comfort or convenience, but about accepting that being watched by someone who asks permission feels different from being watched by someone who demands compliance.
I'm choosing the apartment with cameras. Choosing transparency over privacy. Choosing Jax even though we agreed to wait.
The ceiling fan rotates overhead. I count the rotations out of habit more than necessity. Somewhere across the city, Jax is probably watching the apartment feeds, confirming I'm home and safe and not in danger.
I close my eyes and let the sleeping pill drag me under, counting heartbeats until they return to normal, grateful that for once the choice to be watched was mine.
CHAPTER 13: JAX
The control center hums with its usual machine-breath rhythm, but tonight every sound feels amplified. It’s been two days since the kiss. Forty-eight hours of maintaining professional distance while my hands remember the exact texture of her skin, the way she fit against me, the small sound she made when we both pulled back at the same time.
I'm watching her apartment feed on monitor six. Have been for the past twenty minutes, which is fifteen minutes longer than operational protocol requires. She's home—came back from the foundation office at six-thirty, picked up takeout from the Thai place three blocks away, hasn't left since.
I'm not avoiding her. Can't avoid her when my entire job has become making sure Ezra's investigators don't escalate from documentation to something worse. But I'm also not texting her every hour like some part of me wants to, because that crosses from protective into possessive, and I've been walking that line for more than three weeks now.
My phone sits on the console beside my coffee. Our last exchange was two hours ago:
Lana:Solange made me eat actual food. Revolutionary concept.
Me:Did you?
Lana:Most of it. Thai green curry counts as vegetables, right?
Me:If you need it to.
Lana:How's work?
Me:Quiet. Thursday regulars. Nothing interesting.
Lana:Liar. You find everything interesting. That's the problem.
She's right. I do find everything interesting when it comes to her. The way she orders food, the route she takes home, the fact that she's been sleeping with her bedroom light on. Small details that build into patterns that build into a person I'm watching too carefully.
The stairwell door opens. Lucien descends with his characteristic precision, each step deliberate, expensive shoes clicking against steel. He's wearing charcoal tonight—an expensive suit that matches the shoes.
"Jax." He says my name like he's calling attendance. "Status report."
I minimize the feed showing Lana's building, bring up The Dominion's main floor. "Two flagged interactions in the private rooms. Both resolved. Senator Michaels left through the back entrance at nine—his usual pattern when his wife thinks he's at the office. Camera malfunction in the east corridor has been logged for maintenance."
"And our widow?" Lucien moves to stand beside my chair, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive with cedar and bergamot. "Any movement from Ezra Pope's camp?"
