Jax:Which means he was watching from a position Derek didn't check. Likely a building across the street at your floor level or higher. He'd need elevation to observe an eighth-floor office.
Me:How do you know that?
Jax:Because that's what I'd do. Derek's good but he's checking ground-level threats. Trask is thinking three-dimensionally.
Me:So what do I do?
The dots appear and disappear multiple times. When his response finally comes, it's measured:Thank you for letting me know. I'm concerned, but Derek's there for exactly this reason. The boundaries we agreed on—they need to mean something. Reaching out every time there's a threat puts us right back where we were. I want to help, but not if it means we never actually figure out what this is without the danger.
The words hit harder than Trask's threats. He's right—I've been using escalation as justification for contact, pulling Jax back in through emergencies rather than admitting I just want him back. The space I asked for only works if I actually maintain it, including when maintaining it feels impossible.
Me:You're right. I'm sorry. I'll handle this through proper channels.
Jax:Lana, I'm not saying I don't want to help. I'm saying you need to figure out if you want me or just want someone watching. Those aren't the same thing.
Me:I know.
Jax:Do you? Because from here it looks like you're maintaining distance right up until distance feels scary, then pulling me back as a safety net. That's not fair to either of us.
He's completely right, which makes it worse. I asked for space to determine if attraction survives without protection. But I've been sabotaging the space by reaching out whenever Trask crosses a new line, by using external threats as an excuse for contact. Testing whether Jax will come back when I'm scared,proving to myself that he's still available even when I'm claiming to need distance.
Me:You're right. I'm sorry. I'll stop.
Jax:Don't apologize. Just be honest about what you're doing. And if you decide you want me to come back, actually come back, not just respond to crises, tell me. But make sure it's because you want me, not because you're scared and I'm familiar.
Me:How am I supposed to know the difference?
Jax:That's what the space is for. Figure it out.
Then nothing else. No additional messages, no softening of the boundary he just reinforced. Just the same ruthless clarity he brought to removing the cameras—this is what you asked for, this is what you're getting, figure out what you actually want instead of testing whether I'll break first.
Derek pulls up to my building. "I'll walk you to your door, then hand off to Andre. He'll be in position in the lobby monitoring overnight."
Another stranger. Another professional who'll keep me safe without actually knowing me. This is sustainable security, the kind that doesn't collapse when attraction fades or complications arise. This is what I chose when I asked Jax to remove the cameras.
This is torture.
CHAPTER 17: JAX
Friday. One week since I removed the cameras from Lana's apartment. Seven days of maintaining the space she asked for, of not texting except when she reaches out first, of pretending distance is the same thing as doing the right thing. The distinction felt clearer last week when boundaries seemed ethical rather than torturous.
Now it just feels like I'm slowly losing my mind.
My apartment in The Hollows is too small on my days off, the walls closing in with nothing to distract from the absence of surveillance feeds I'm not supposed to be monitoring. On Fridays, I usually sleep until noon after working nights all week, then spend the afternoon on maintenance tasks that don't require being at The Dominion. Today I've been awake since six AM, staring at my ceiling, trying to convince myself that not checking traffic cameras near Lana's building is the same thing as respecting her request for space.
I give up on sleep at seven, make coffee in the kitchen that's barely large enough for one person, stare at my laptop with the particular self-loathing of someone who knows exactly what he's about to do and does it anyway.
Traffic cameras near Lana's building. I pull up feeds I shouldn't have access to, scan footage from this morning and watch till I find her leaving at eight-thirty with Derek—same as Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. Professional security doing exactly what professional security does, keeping her safe through methods that don't involve the man who was illegally monitoring her apartment.
I close the laptop before I can spiral further into checking foundation office cameras, her route to therapy on Wednesday,any of the thousand other data points I've been cataloging despite promising Elias I'd stop completely.
The conversation with him last Saturday plays through my head with uncomfortable clarity. We met at Giordano's for our monthly check-in lunch, and he spent ninety minutes calmly deconstructing every reason I'd given myself for continuing to monitor her.
"You can't position yourself as her emergency contact, Jax. Using threats to justify your presence—that's surveillance by another name."
He was right. About all of it. About me justifying watching with caring, about surveillance becoming the only way I know how to connect, about needing to figure out if what I feel survives when I can't monitor her every move. But being right doesn't make the space any easier to maintain, doesn't stop me from wanting to drive to her apartment and reinstall every camera I removed.
My phone sits on the coffee table. No messages from Lana since Monday night when I told her to figure out if she wants me or just wants someone watching. Four days of her actually maintaining the distance instead of testing boundaries with crisis texts. Four days of wondering if the space is helping her gain clarity or just proving that attraction without protection was never real to begin with.
