He hands me coffee, and I take it without thinking, wrapping my hands around the warmth. We're standing in his kitchen—if you can call six feet of counter and a two-burnerstove a kitchen—and the proximity feels different than it did in my apartment last night. Here, I'm the one in his space, the one intruding on territory he controls.
"You said you needed to tell me something about Trask," I prompt.
Jax moves to his laptop on the coffee table, wakes it up, angles the screen so I can see. Surveillance footage from my building's exterior, timestamp showing four-eighteen this morning. Trask is there, camera around his neck, coffee in hand, performing his usual routine of documentation.
"He was outside your building from four-eighteen until six-oh-three," Jax says. "But he wasn't alone."
The footage shows Trask talking to another man—mid-forties, leather jacket, the kind of build that suggests either serious gym time or a job that requires physical intimidation. They're conferring over Trask's camera, reviewing photos, pointing at my building's entrance.
"Who is that?"
"Victor Reese. Private security contractor. The kind you hire when you want someone scared rather than protected." Jax clicks to another clip, shows Reese entering my building's lobby, testing the door to the stairwell, examining the security panel. "He was casing your building. Running through access points, timing security rotations, mapping blind spots."
My coffee mug feels too heavy in my hands. "Why would Trask need a security contractor?"
"He wouldn't. But whoever hired him might." Jax pulls up more footage—Reese leaving the building, meeting Trask on the corner, both of them walking toward a black SUV parked three blocks away. "Ezra dropped the legal case. That means hecan't touch your inheritance through courts. But he can still try other methods."
The implication settles over me with a weight that makes breathing difficult. "You think he's planning something physical."
"I think he's escalating. Reese specializes in breaking and entering, intimidation, making people feel unsafe in their own homes." Jax closes the laptop, turns to face me fully. "This isn't surveillance anymore, Lana. This is threat assessment for actual violence."
"So what do I do?"
"You call Mira. Document everything. Get a restraining order against Trask and Reese both. You might not have grounds to stop them from photographing you in public, but you can prevent them from entering your building or coming within a certain distance." He's talking fast now, the way he does when he's running through tactical plans. "I'll increase monitoring on your apartment. Add another camera angle for the building entrance. Maybe install motion sensors on your door—"
"Jax, stop." I set down my coffee before I drop it. "Solange said something this morning that I can't stop thinking about."
He goes very still. "What did she say?"
"That if you and I are going to figure out what this is between us; you can't also be my security system. That those two roles can't coexist without creating the exact power imbalance we're trying to avoid." The words feel dangerous coming out of my mouth, like I'm dismantling something I might need. "She's right, isn't she?"
Jax doesn't answer immediately. His expression does something complicated—recognition, resistance, mayberesignation. When he finally speaks, his voice is careful. "What are you suggesting?"
"I'm suggesting we separate the two things. I hire actual security—professionals who aren't emotionally complicated. People who can handle Trask and Webb without it being tied to whatever is happening between us." I force myself to hold his gaze. "And you stop being the person monitoring my apartment. Remove the cameras, give me space to figure out what I'm feeling without surveillance as constant presence."
"That makes you more vulnerable."
"Does it? Or does it just feel that way because I've gotten used to being watched?"
The question hangs between us. I can see him processing it, running through the same analysis I've been running since Solange pointed out the trap I'm walking into. The inability to separate genuine connection from contextual dependency.
"If I remove the cameras," he says slowly, "and something happens to you because I wasn't monitoring—"
"Then we deal with it. But Jax, I can't build a relationship with someone who's also my surveillance system. And I can't keep confusing your protection with actual intimacy."
His jaw tightens, and for a moment I think he's going to argue. Going to explain why the cameras are necessary, why removing them would be strategically foolish, why I'm wrong about the power dynamics. Instead he moves to the window, looks out at the street four floors below.
"You're right," he says finally. "About all of it. About the power imbalance and the dependency and the way I've been using protection as proximity." He turns back to face me. "But I need you to understand something. The cameras weren't justabout keeping you safe. They were about keeping myself from losing you before I had you."
The confession is raw enough that it hurts to hear. "What does that mean?"
"It means I've been watching you for weeks, cataloging every pattern, every routine, every small detail. And somewhere in that surveillance, I stopped being professional and started being obsessed." His hands flex at his sides, the only sign of tension in an otherwise controlled stance. "Removing the cameras means I don't get to see you unless you choose to let me. That terrifies me more than any threat from Ezra or Trask or whoever else."
The honesty is devastating in its simplicity. This isn't about my safety. This is about his need to maintain connection through the only method he knows—observation, documentation, the careful watching that's been his entire professional life.
"That's exactly why the cameras need to go," I say gently. "Because what you're describing isn't protection. It's possession with better optics."
He flinches like I've hit him, but he doesn't argue. Just nods once, sharp and definitive. "When do you want them removed?"
