And her eyes narrowed. Not dramatically—just a flicker. But I saw it. That flicker of jealousy. That possessive flash she couldn’t hide. She caught herself quickly, mouth flattening into a line, her expression smoothing out like she hadn’t even blinked.
But I knew her and I knew what that look meant.
“Maliah,” I said. “I got it from here.”
She blinked. Hesitated. Then smirked, like she thought she was winning something I hadn’t offered.
I didn’t care. Sanaa was here, holding a slim portfolio against her hip like she’d come to conduct business and nothing else. But the second our eyes met, the room shifted. A quiet, unmistakable awareness of history stepping back into place.
I realized then I’d underestimated her. She hadn’t answered my email.
She’d answered me.
5
Ishould’ve listened to the voice that told me to send the file digitally and keep this clean.
Keep it distant, professional, and safe.
That voice had carried me through harder decisions than this one. It was the same voice that helped me pack boxes in silenceyears ago. The one that reminded me survival sometimes looks like walking away before love can finish breaking you.
But his email disrupted that hard-earned logic.
On the surface, it was exactly what it needed to be. Formal. Direct. A request for documentation tied to the fire investigation. No extra words. No questions that didn’t belong. Anyone else would’ve read it and seen procedure. I saw restraint. I saw every word he didn’t allow himself to write.
And that was worse.
Because Tariq Hunt had never been a man who hid behind language. Not with me. Not when we were us. The control in that message told me how much it had cost him to send it at all.
I told myself I would respond the same way. Attach the files. Keep moving. Let this be one more clean exchange between two people who used to share a life.
Instead, I got in my car.
The drive felt longer than it should have. Like the city itself was asking me if I was sure. Every red light a chance to turn around. Every turn another opportunity to choose distance again.
I didn’t take any of them. Because no matter how much time had passed, some part of me had been waiting for him to reach.
And now I was standing in the doorway of his office. Watching another woman lean too close. Laugh too easily. Existing inside a space I knew the shape of without stepping into it. My chest tightened—not with jealousy. Not exactly.
With recognition.
Of how easily the world keeps moving when you’re the one who stops.
My hand tightened on the portfolio I’d brought with me, the weight of it grounding. This was why I was here. Evidence. Documentation. Facts. Not memory. Not history. Not him.
Still… when he looked up, every careful reason I’d built for coming here started to feel dangerously thin.
She was pretty. Young. Glossy lips. Braids styled sleek with gold cuffs at the ends. Her blouse hugged her a little tighter than dress code probably allowed, but Tariq didn’t seem to be looking at her like that.
He didn’t have to. She looked athimenough for both of them.
And Tariq—he was still dangerous.
Still tall, broad, all that calm restraint wrapped around a body that used to wreck me. Still wearing that tactical silence like a badge. Still standing like he could take your breath or your life depending on how you moved.
I felt stripped, exposed—like he could still see me down to the skin, the sweat, the tremble.
Seeing him like this, in control, desired, unmoved… it cracked something in me I hadn’t let surface in years.
