I set down my food and move closer to her, taking her hand. Her fingers are cold, and I rub them gently between mine.
"You're fighting too. And you deserve to be valued for your work."
My heart is pounding. We've been careful these past few weeks, moving slowly, letting her set the pace. But watching her doubt herself because of office gossip, seeing her shoulders bend under the weight of others' judgment—I can't let her think she's alone in this.
"I love you, Avery."
The words hang between us, heavy and irreversible. Her eyes go wide, and I watch her face cycle through surprise, fear, and something that might be joy before settling on panic.
"And I won't let anyone make you question your worth," I continue, needing to get it all out. "Not the board, not that shitty ex, not the voice in your head that's probably telling you this was a mistake."
She opens her mouth, closes it, and I can see her struggling with words that won't come.
"You don't have to say it back," I tell her quickly. "I just needed you to know. I need you to understand that this isn't casual for me. That when I defend you, it's not because I think you're weak. It's because you matter to me more than this entire company."
Avery stands abruptly and walks to the window, her back to me, and for a terrible moment, I think I've pushed too hard, said too much too soon. The city spreads below us, lights beginning to twinkle in the gathering dusk, and her reflection in the glass shows me nothing.
Then she speaks, voice thick with emotion: "I'm scared."
I stay where I am, giving her space to continue.
"I'm terrified, actually. Because I think I love you too, and I don't know how to do that without losing myself. With Oliver, I became smaller and smaller until I almost disappeared entirely. I changed everything about myself to fit into his life, and by the end, I didn't even recognize who I'd become."
I stand slowly, move to her, but don't touch. Not yet.
"That was Oliver," I say carefully. "Not love. Love isn't supposed to make you smaller, Avery."
"Then what's it supposed to do?" She turns to face me, and there are tears tracking down her cheeks. "Because right now it feels like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff, and everyone's waiting to watch me fall."
I reach up slowly, giving her time to pull away, and brush the tears from her cheeks. "Then we'll figure it out together. You don't have to lose yourself to love me, Avery. That's the whole point. I fell for you exactly as you are—sharp edges, brilliant mind, terrible coffee addiction, and all."
A watery laugh escapes her. "The coffee's not that bad."
"It's terrible, and you know it."
She looks up at me, something shifting in her expression, and then she's kissing me—soft and vulnerable and trusting in a way that makes my chest ache. When we part, she whispers against my lips: "I love you too. God help me, but I do."
We spend the rest of the evening on my couch, her head on my shoulder, my fingers running through her hair. We talk about safer things—the current case timeline, her sister's latest dating disaster, my mother's insistence on hosting Sunday dinner with Avery. But underneath it all is this new truth between us, fragile and precious.
"We'll handle the office gossip," I tell her as she's getting ready to leave. "Together."
She nods, but I see the doubt creeping back in. "What if it affects your position? Your reputation?"
"Then we deal with it."
"Dylan—"
"Avery." I take her face in my hands, making sure she's looking at me. "I've spent years rebuilding this company. But I'd rather lose it all than lose you."
She kisses me again, fierce and desperate, and I taste promise and fear in equal measure.
The next morning, I arrive at the office to find an emergency board meeting scheduled for 10 AM. The email is vague—"discussing matters of corporate governance and professional standards"—but I know exactly what this is about.
For forty-five minutes, I sit in that boardroom and endure thinly veiled suggestions that instead of a promotion to Senior Legal Counsel like originally proposed, perhaps Avery should transfer to a different department "to avoid any appearance of impropriety." Richard leads the charge, his tone condescending as he talks about perception, professional boundaries, and the importance of maintaining clear hierarchies.
"Atty. Cole is exactly where she should be," I say, fighting to keep my voice level. "Her work speaks for itself."
"No one's questioning her competence," Richard says, though that's exactly what he's doing. "But surely, you can see how this... situation... might affect team dynamics. Client relationships. Perhaps a lateral move to our Chicago office—"
