"This isn't about proving anything—"
"Yes, it is." I stepped closer. "You said we're partners. That means I get to make decisions about my business. And I'm deciding to teach tomorrow."
His hands curled into fists at his sides. "What if he shows up? What if he gets past me?"
"Then I'll handle it. I have pepper spray. I'll keep the door locked once class starts. My students will be safe inside with me."
"And what if he has a weapon?" His voice roughened. "What if I'm thirty seconds too late getting to you? What if—"
"You can't protect me from everything, Gage." My throat tightened, but I pushed through. "I can't live my life scared. Can't let some stranger take away what I've built."
"Damn it, darlin', I'm trying to keep you safe."
"I know." I touched his arm. Felt the tension vibrating through him. "And I appreciate that. But I need you to trust me. Trust that I can handle this."
We stared at each other across his desk. I could see the war in his expression—every protective instinct screaming at him to lock me away somewhere safe, fighting against his promise to respect my choices.
"What if something happens?" His voice cracked slightly. "What if I fail—"
"You won't." I moved closer, placed my hand over his heart. "But even if the worst happens, that's not on you. I'm making this choice. Me. Not you."
His hand covered mine. "I hate this."
"I know."
"Fine." He exhaled hard. "But I'm there. Outside the building the entire time. And if he shows up—"
"You arrest him." I laced our fingers together. "You do your job. I do mine."
He pulled me against him. Buried his face in my hair. "You're gonna give me a heart attack, woman."
"Probably." I wrapped my arms around his waist. "But you'll survive."
***
That evening, I triple-checked every lock in my apartment. Looked over my shoulder walking to my car. Texted Gage before bed.
Me:Still good. Locks secure. See you tomorrow.
Gage:Already dreading it. But I trust you. Sleep safe.
I didn't sleep much. Every sound from the apartment complex made me tense. A door slamming. Footsteps on the stairs. The heating vent rattling.
But I didn't call him. Didn't ask him to come over and make me feel safe.
Because I needed to prove—to both of us—that I could do this.
***
Thursday evening, I arrived at the studio at six-thirty. The thermometer on the bank across the street read thirty-two degrees.
Gage's cruiser was already there, parked where he could see both entrances. He'd followed me from my apartment, keeping two car lengths back the whole drive. I'd stopped arguing about it.
I pulled out my phone.
Me:I can see you out there.
Gage:Good. Want you to know I'm here.
