"The run," Miguel supplies, suspicious but buying it. "Yeah. Okay. But I want proof of life every four hours."
"That's excessive."
"That's non-negotiable."
He hangs up, and I sag back against pillows that smell like Zane—cigarettes he's trying to quit, motor oil from his garage, something clean underneath like he actually does laundry, unlike me.
"I should go," I say.
"You can't walk."
"Watch me."
I stand. My legs have other opinions about supporting my body weight. I'm falling, and then I'm not, because Zane's caughtme, pressed against him, my hands flat on his chest feeling his heartbeat race from normal to tachycardic in two seconds flat.
"Lena."
The way he says my name is a diagnosis and a prayer and a threat all at once. We're so close I can see the gold flecks in his brown eyes, the scar through his left eyebrow, the way his jaw clenches like he's physically holding words back.
"We can't," I whisper.
"We already are."
"This will end badly."
"Everything good does."
He leans in. I don't pull away. Our lips are millimeters apart when my phone buzzes with Izzy's text:Miguel's driving by your apartment. Get here NOW.
Twenty minutes later, I'm at my apartment, delivered by Zane like medical equipment—careful, essential, fragile. Izzy's there with props: soup on the stove, medicine bottles scattered strategically, her nursing textbooks spread out like we've beenstudying instead of covering up my near-death experience with Phoenix's Most Wanted.
"You look like hypothermic shit," she says helpfully.
"Thanks. Really feeling the friendship."
"He knows," she continues, stirring soup I won't eat. "Miguel. He knows something's up. That warehouse raid has him paranoid, and you disappearing after it?"
"I didn't disappear. I almost died."
"With a member of Iron Talons. Naked. In a freezer." She turns to face me, and her expression is pure best friend concern mixed with professional assessment. "Lena, this isn't sustainable."
She's right. My body's still recovering—core temperature probably still low, mild confusion, exhaustion that feels cellular. And my phone won't stop buzzing with texts from Zane, checking in, making sure I'm okay, sending voice notes that I can't listen to with Izzy here but that make my damaged neurons fire in interesting patterns.
The weekend passes in a blur of recovery and lies. I miss my first shift ever, Lisa Santos calls twice, Miguel drops by with Mom's soup recipe that he can't make right but tries anyway. And Sunday night, when I should be sleeping, my phone rings with a FaceTime from Bad Decision.
I shouldn't answer. I'm not wearing makeup, my hair looks like I've been electrocuted, and I'm pretty sure I still have mild hypothermia face, which is not attractive.
I answer anyway.
Zane's drunk. Not sloppy drunk, but the careful kind that comes from drinking with purpose, with grief. His eyes are red, and there's a bottle of whiskey visible in frame.
"Today's her anniversary," he says without preamble. "Emma. Two years."
"Zane—"
"She died in my arms." The words fall out like he's been holding them in his throat. "Not—not overdosed yet. After I found her, tried CPR. She came back for thirty seconds. Just long enough to look at me. To say my name."
My chest cracks open. I understand this specific grief—the moment when someone you love recognizes you while dying, when their last word is your name, when you become the final thing they see.
