He was looking at me the way he used to. Soft. Warm. Like I was something worth looking at.
The apartment went quiet around us, the case files forgotten, and for a second, I thought he was going to kiss me.
"So." I cleared my throat. Looked away first. "What do you want for dinner?"
"You're buying?"
"You bought last time."
"I didn't burden you with choice. Just order what you like."
"Fine." I pulled up the delivery app. "You'll eat what I order."
"Should I be worried?"
I grinned at him. "I remember what you hate. I could order it. Watching you try to be polite while choking down?—"
"You wouldn't."
"Wouldn't I?"
I ordered real food. The things I remembered he liked, beef and broccoli from the Szechuan place on 47th, extra rice, those dumplings he used to eat by the dozen.
His expression when it arrived—soft, surprised, grateful—did something complicated to my chest.
We ate surrounded by evidence of corruption and seven years of one man's quiet crusade.
He never gave up, I thought, watching him frown at a spreadsheet while absently reaching for another dumpling. All this time, alone, fighting a battle no one else could see. And he never stopped.
It made me wonder what else he'd been holding onto.
The knock came at nine-thirty.
Pierce. The box. I'd agreed to Tuesday two weeks ago, back when Tuesday was just another empty evening. Before Garrett. Before the case files on my coffee table and the man reviewing them on my couch.
I'd completely forgotten.
Garrett looked up from the documents, instantly alert, that tactical awareness I'd seen in him at the firehouse clicking into place.
"It's fine," I said. "My ex. He's picking up his things."
Something crossed Garrett's face. Gone before I could name it.
I opened the door.
Pierce.
He stood in the hallway looking exactly the way he always looked—expensive haircut, designer jacket, the kind of confident stance that came from never being told no. His eyes swept past me into the apartment, landing on Garrett on my couch.
"Sloane." His voice cooled by several degrees. "I'm here for my box."
"Pierce." I stepped back, not quite an invitation, but not blocking his way either. "I forgot you were coming tonight."
"Clearly." He walked past me, gaze fixed on Garrett, who had risen from the couch with the careful stillness of someone assessing a potential threat. "I see you're busy."
"We're working on a case." I moved to the closet, retrieved the cardboard box I'd packed weeks ago. "Garrett, this is Pierce. Pierce, Lieutenant Garrett Stone. He's my liaison from FDNY."
"The firefighter thing." Pierce took the box without looking at it. His attention was still on Garrett, measuring him. "Right. The arson story."
