His voice drops. "You've been keeping a low profile. Smart move after the cartel. But low profile means basic locks and hoping you stay off their radar. That worked until Lucas witnessed a murder. Now you need real security without announcing to the Committee that someone's protecting a witness."
He glances toward the hallway where Lucas's room is. "I should talk to Lucas. He won't know me, but he needs to understand the basics of what's happening."
"No." The word comes out sharp and final. "You don't talk to Lucas about any of this. He's six years old. He's already carrying enough fear without you adding to it."
"He needs to know the danger?—"
"He needs to feel safe. He needs to believe his mother can protect him. He needs normal, Colton, not tactical briefings from a man he doesn't know." I cross my arms and plant myself between him and the hallway. "You want to set up security? Fine.You want to sleep on my couch and watch for threats? Fine. But you don't touch Lucas's sense of safety. That's mine to handle."
I step closer, making sure he hears every word. "And whatever weapons you're carrying stay locked up when you're in this house. Lucas is six. He's curious. He's been through trauma. I'm not risking him finding a loaded gun on my coffee table because you got comfortable."
He studies me for a long moment, calculating, weighing, deciding whether to push. Finally, he nods. "All right. But if something happens, if there's an immediate threat, I'm not going to have time for gentle explanations."
"If there's an immediate threat, you do whatever it takes to keep him alive. But until then, he's just a kid whose mom has an old friend staying for a while. That's the story we're selling."
"Old friend." Something bitter crosses his face. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"That's what we're calling it. Because Lucas doesn't need to know that you broke my heart and disappeared. He doesn't need to know that his mother was stupid enough to fall for someone who treated her like a mission with an expiration date."
Something shutters behind his eyes. He goes very still.
"I left because?—"
"I don't care why you left." I cut him off before he can finish, before he can give me reasons that might sound logical or explanations that might make sense. "I cared eight years ago when I needed answers. Now I just need you to do your job and then leave. Everything else is irrelevant."
He opens his mouth like he's going to argue, then closes it. Smart man. Nothing he says will make this better, and we both know it.
"I should check the perimeter," he says instead. "Make sure there's no surveillance already in place."
"Fine. I'll explain to Lucas that you're staying for a while."
"And if he asks why?"
"I'll tell him you're here to help keep us safe." It’s an abbreviated version of the truth, but it’s one Lucas can handle. "He's a good kid. He won't push."
Colton nods slowly, then moves toward the door. Pauses with his hand on the knob, looking back at me with an expression I can't quite read. "For what it's worth, I am sorry. For leaving. For the way I did it. For all of it."
"Like I said, irrelevant." Keeping my voice flat, refusing to let him see that the apology lands anywhere near my heart. "Check your perimeter. I'll talk to Lucas."
He leaves without another word, and standing alone in my living room feels like standing between the ghost of who I used to be and the reality of who I've become.
The door clicks shut behind him, and the sound drags me back eight years. Different door. Different time and place. Same echo of him walking away.
His hands had been everywhere that last night. Rough palms sliding over skin still damp from the shower, fingers tangling in my wet hair as he backed me against the bathroom counter. Steam still hung in the air, making everything hazy and unreal. Making it easier to pretend this wasn't goodbye even though I could feel it in every desperate touch.
"Stay," I'd whispered against his mouth. Not begging. Just stating what I needed. What we both needed if this was going to be anything more than bodies seeking comfort in the dark.
He'd kissed me harder instead of answering. Lifted me onto the counter and stepped between my thighs, his dog tags cold against my overheated skin. Every stroke deliberate and claiming, like he could mark me as his through sheer physical intensity. Like he could make me forget that he'd never once said he loved me, never once promised tomorrow.
I'd let him. God help me, I'd let him because having part of him felt better than having none of him, and I was young enough to believe that good sex meant something more than two people who fit well together in the dark.
Afterward, we'd lain tangled in my sheets, his heartbeat steady under my palm, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my spine. I'd started to drift off thinking maybe this time would be different. Maybe this time he'd choose me over whatever mission came next.
I woke to an empty bed and a note on the pillow. "You deserve better than this. Better than me."
Coward's words. Walking away was easier than staying. Easier than admitting he couldn't give me what I needed. Easier than being honest about what we were—temporary, disposable, never meant to last.
Standing in my living room now, older and harder and infinitely more careful about who I let close, that memory feels like it happened to someone else. That girl who thought good sex meant love, who thought a man who touched her like she mattered would actually stay—she's gone. Mateo's compound made sure of that.
