"Today. Now, if possible." I'm pushing before I can second-guess this decision. "I need to know if what I feel for you survives without the surveillance. And you need to figure out if you can want me without watching me."
"And if I can't?"
"Then we both learn something important about whether this was ever real."
He moves to his laptop, pulls up a file, then forwards it to my phone. "That's everything," he says. "Every camera location, every access point, every piece of surveillance equipment I installed in or around your building. I'll have it all removed by tonight."
The speed of his compliance unsettles me more than resistance would have. "Just like that?"
"You're right about the power dynamics. About possession versus protection. I've been telling myself the surveillance was necessary for your safety, but really I was just finding excuses to maintain access." He closes the laptop with more force than necessary. "I won't be that person."
"But Reese and Trask are still out there. The threat is real."
"Then we handle it differently. You hire professional security through Mira's office. People who specialize in physical protection, not surveillance. I'll give them everything I have on Trask and Reese—patterns, photos, threat assessment. Then I step back."
"Completely?"
"From the security role, yes. From you—" He stops, runs a hand through his hair. "That's up to you. If you want space to figure out what you're feeling without me on your throat, I'll give you that space. But I'm not walking away entirely unless you tell me to."
I should feel relieved. This is what I asked for—separation of protection and relationship, removal of the surveillance that's been making clarity impossible. Instead I feel untethered, like I'm about to remove the scaffolding before confirming the structure can stand on its own.
"I need time," I say. "To figure out if what I feel is real or just dependency wearing a different face. A week, maybe two."
"How much contact during that time?"
"Minimal. No surveillance, no checking in unless I reach out first. Let me exist without being watched and see if I still want you when the cameras are gone."
His expression does something painful—acceptance and loss happening simultaneously. "And if you decide this was just trauma response? That the attraction doesn't survive without the protection element?"
"Then at least we'll know. And we can both move forward without wondering what might have been real." I move toward his door, needing to leave before I change my mind about this. "Remove the cameras today. I'll call Mira about proper security. We'll figure out the rest after I've had time to think clearly."
He doesn't try to stop me, doesn't argue for more contact or slower withdrawal. Just nods and says, "I'll text you when the equipment is removed. After that, the next move is yours."
I leave his apartment with the certainty that I've just made either the best or worst decision of my recovery. Time will tell which.
CHAPTER 15: JAX
The cameras come down easier than I expected. Twenty minutes to remove the equipment from Lana's building—entry camera, hallway monitor, the living room feed I've been watching for three weeks. Each piece goes into the equipment case with a finality that feels worse than it should, like I'm dismantling something essential rather than just repositioning boundaries.
The building super watches me work from his doorway, arms crossed, expression suggesting he knew this was temporary all along. "Tenant complained?"
"Something like that." I'm unscrewing the last mount from the third-floor hallway, coiling cables, erasing my presence from her space one piece at a time.
"You the boyfriend or the stalker?" He asks this casually, like the distinction is academic rather than fundamental.
"Still figuring that out."
He grunts something that might be sympathy or judgment. "Women don't usually ask for cameras to come down unless the guy installing them crossed a line."
"I crossed several." The mount comes free, leaving small holes in the wall I'll need to patch before leaving. "I'm trying to uncross them."
"Good luck with that." He disappears back into his apartment, probably deciding I'm not worth the effort of further assessment.
I finish the removal work by two PM. Text Lana:Equipment removed. Your building is clear.
Her response takes five minutes:Thank you. For respecting the boundary.
I stare at those words—thank you, boundary, the formal distance of gratitude between people who were kissing on her couch twelve hours ago. This is what I agreed to. Space for her to figure out if the attraction survives without surveillance as scaffolding. But knowing it's necessary doesn't make it hurt less.
