Better to end it now, before it got worse. Before I got used to the way she looked at me like I was worth something, like I mattered, like I could be the man she thought I was.
Except I couldn't end it.
Because she'd agreed to dinner.
And some pathetic part of me was already clinging to that like a lifeline I didn't deserve, like maybe I'd get one more chance to not fuck everything up.
I woke before dawn, the room still dark, my body coiled tight with tension that sleep hadn't even touched. I stared at the ceiling for maybe ten minutes, watching shadows shift as the city slowly woke up outside my window, listening to Charleston breathe, before giving up entirely.
I needed to run.
Needed to move. To push my body hard enough that my brain would shut the hell up for a few minutes and give me some peace from the constant loop of self-recrimination.
I changed into running gear—shorts, a faded Army PT shirt that had seen better days and too many deployments—laced up my running shoes, the only civilian pair I owned, and hit the pavement as the first hint of gray touched the eastern sky.
Charleston was quiet at this hour. Empty streets. The city still sleeping off whatever the night before had brought—tourists stumbling home drunk, locals finishing late shifts, the normal chaos of life temporarily suspended. Just me and the rhythm of my feet hitting concrete, the sound echoing off historic buildings that had witnessed centuries of people running from things they couldn't fix.
I tried to outrun my thoughts.
Didn't work. Never did.
They sat on me with every stride. Heavy. Relentless. Unforgiving.
Sophie's face when I'd stopped her hands, when I'd gently lowered them away from me like I was rejecting her instead of trying to save her from myself. The way she'd wrapped her arms around herself like she was trying to hold the pieces together, like I'd just confirmed every fear she'd ever had about being too much or not enough. The quiet devastation in her voice when she said, "So, you don't see me like that."
God.
Like I didn't see her. Like I hadn't been seeing her so clearly it terrified me, seeing every beautiful thing about her and knowing I'd only ruin it. Like I hadn't been thinking about her constantly since the moment I saw her on that dock, like the last years had just been marking time until I could find my way back to her and fuck it all up again.
I pushed harder. Faster. Turned down streets without thinking, just running, letting my legs burn, letting my lungs scream for air, punishing my body because I couldn't punish the part of me that kept fucking everything up, that kept choosing fear over everything else.
Twelve miles later—maybe more, I'd stopped counting after eight—I dragged myself back to Mama P's, soaked through with sweat, gasping like I'd been drowning, legs shaking so bad I could barely climb the porch steps without gripping the railing.
At least, the demons in my head were quieter.
For now.
The light was on inside, warm and inviting through the lace curtains, promising coffee and food and normal things. Mama P's breakfast. The one bright spot in an otherwise shit morning. I could already smell it—coffee, something baking, biscuits maybe, the scent of butter and salt.
I pushed through the door, already thinking about sitting down before my legs gave out entirely?—
And froze.
There was a man in the kitchen.
Suit. Perfectly pressed despite the early hour, like he'd walked out of a catalog for mediocre government employees. Standing across from Mama P, who was at the stove with a spatula in hand, giving him a look that could've stripped paint off walls, that could've withered plants.
The man turned when he heard me, like he'd been waiting for exactly this moment.
My body went cold, every instinct I'd honed over years of combat screaming at once, adrenaline spiking all over again.
Special Agent Trevor Klein.
That sleazy fucking grin spread across his face like oil on water, smug and satisfied and exactly as punchable as I remembered. "Hello, Wyatt."
Every muscle in my body locked. Fight or flight. And right now, fight was winning by a landslide, my hands already curling into fists before I could stop them, before training could override instinct.
I glanced at Mama P. She was still giving Klein that look—the one that said she'd seen worse men than him and buried a few, the one that said she knew exactly what kind of snake was standing in her kitchen pretending to be human.
