He couldn’t fall apart in front of Warren.
He wouldn’t.
“I’m sorry,” Jude gasped. “God, I’m so—”
But the rest caught in his throat as panic surged, sharp and choking. He slid out from the booth so fast the table rocked behind him.
“Jude!”
He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Even with the old couple in the corner glancing up as he stormed for the door. He shoved it open hard enough to rattle the frame, rain smacking cold and sharp the moment he hit the street.
He dragged in a breath. Then another.
As if air alone could erase the last thirty seconds. As if oxygen might clear the shame rising like bile.
He neededout.
Distance.
Somewhere that wasn’tthere. Or in his own head.
“Jude—Jesus, Jude!”
He spun. Warren caught up, reaching out, then stopping dead, hovering his arm in the damp air.He retracted it instantly, clenching his hand into a fist at his side, as if physically restraining his instinct to close the distance.When really, Jude wanted nothing more than kind arms to wrap around him, soft fingers to stroke him, gentle voice to whisper that he was okay.
“Hey,” Warren said, voice soft. Grounding. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“No.” Jude shook his head, shutting his eyes tight. The shame was still there, but beneath it was a small, fragile certainty: Warren hadn't pushed. Warren had backed away. Warren had listened. “It’s fine. I… I need to go.”
“Okay,” he said. No pity. No tension. Just the word, calm and sure. But he darted his eyes around as if checking anyone waswatching. “Let me pay the bill, grab my coat. Then I’ll give you a lift home.”
Jude blinked.Oh God. The bill.
He’d walked out without paying.
He fumbled in his trousers pocket, found a crumpled tenner, and shoved it into Warren’s hand. “Here. Sorry. I’ll give you more next week. You don’t need to—”
“Jude, please.” Warren dipped to get into his eyeline, trying to keep Jude there with his gaze, not by force. Or power. God, he had no idea what that meant. “You can trust me.”
Thenthat.
But Jude said nothing.
Because people said that sort of thing all the time. Some even meant them. But it didn’t mean they wouldn’t still hurt him later.
And Jude had learned the hard way. Everyone lied eventually.
So when Warren turned back into the restaurant to settle the bill, Jude watched him for a beat, caught in the soft glow of the doorway light. Then he turned away, and let the night swallow him whole, darkness wrapping around his shoulder, the only shield he could still believe in, reminding himself that it was his own reckless choices that had led him to where he was now.
Chapter eleven
Tactical Surveillance
Warren hadn’t been able to get Jude out of his head since Friday.
He knew trauma.Realtrauma. He’d studied it in training rooms with two-way mirrors and stale coffee. Monitored it in suspects. De-escalated it in teenagers with knives in their pockets and grief behind their eyes. Panic spoke a language he understood fluently. Tight shoulders, shallow breaths, eyes hunting for exits.
Jude had ticked every box. Textbook.
