Lana:I've been thinking about the kiss. About what we said after. About waiting until the legal situation resolves.
My pulse kicks up.Me:And?
Lana:And I think we were right. About the timing being wrong. About not complicating things while Ezra is still threatening. But I also think waiting is going to kill me.
I stare at her message, trying to decode tone through text. The dots appear again.
Lana:I'm not saying we should ignore what we agreed. I'm just saying that every hour we wait feels like its own kind of torture. Like I'm back in that place where I'm not allowed to want things because wanting is dangerous.
Me:Wanting isn't dangerous. Acting without thinking about consequences is dangerous.
Lana:Says the man watching me through cameras.
Me:I never claimed to be good at taking my own advice.
Lana:Can you come over? Not for... I just want to see you. In person. Without screens between us.
Every operational instinct says this is a bad idea. That seeing her when we're both running on two days of frustrated attraction and unresolved tension is exactly how boundaries get violated. That Lucien's assessment about power imbalances and gravitational pull is correct, and I should maintain distance until the Ezra situation fully resolves.
But I'm already standing up from my chair, checking the time. Eleven-forty-seven. My shift ends at two, but the overnight monitor arrives at midnight for the handoff.
Me:I can be there by 12:30. Just to talk.
Lana:Just to talk.
Me:I mean it, Lana. We agreed to wait, and I'm not going to be the one who pushes past that boundary just because waiting is uncomfortable.
Lana:I know. That's why I trust you.
The words sit on my screen like an accusation. Trust. The thing I've been trying to earn by confession and transparency and giving her control over surveillance she never asked for. But trust built on protection and vulnerability is exactly what Lucien warned about—the kind that collapses once external threats resolve and people have space to think clearly.
I'm still watching her on the feed when it appears her phone rings at eleven fifty-three. She pauses, and checks the screen, and her whole-body language shifts—tension followed by cautious hope. She answers, and I can see her listening intently, one hand coming up to her mouth. I can't hear the conversation through the cameras, but I can read her body language well enough. Whatever she's hearing, it's significant.
The call lasts four minutes. When she hangs up, she stands frozen for a moment, the phone still pressed to her chest, expression cycling through disbelief, relief, something that might be joy. Then she's reaching for her phone again, typing fast.
My phone vibrates. Text from Lana:Mira just called. Ezra's withdrawing the will contest. Malcolm told him to choose his political career over Gabriel's money. It's over. The legal threat is actually over.
I stare at her message, processing the information that changes everything. The relief is physical, loosening tension I didn't realize I'd been holding in my shoulders, my jaw, and the base of my spine.
Me:When?
Lana:Papers filed tomorrow morning. Malcolm called Mira an hour ago, she's been reviewing the documentation. It's official. He's done.
Me:How do you feel?
The dots appear and disappear several times before her response comes:Like I can finally breathe. And also terrified because now the excuse for waiting is gone.
I watch her through the feed—she's moving again, but this time it's not anxious pacing. She's walking to her window, looking out at the city, touching the glass like she's testing whether the world is real.
Me:We don't need excuses. We have reasons.
Lana:Do we? Because the main reason was Ezra's legal threat creating external pressure. That pressure just evaporated.
Me:The reason was making sure we're choosing this for the right reasons, not because circumstances are forcing decisions. That hasn't changed.
Lana:Are you still coming over?
Me:Already finishing the handoff. Be there by 12:30.
