Twice now. He'd walked away twice.
And the thing was, I understood. I did. Coming to terms with wanting something you'd never let yourself want before—that was terrifying. I'dwatched enough people struggle with it during my years in the Bureau, watched marriages end and friendships shatter as people tried to reconcile who they thought they were with who they actually were.
But understanding didn't make it hurt less.
I sat up, ran my hands through my sweat-damp hair. The gym was quiet around me, the light fading as evening approached. Somewhere in the clubhouse, people were living their lives—eating dinner, making plans, pretending that the world made sense.
I was done waiting.
Done letting Tank set the pace, decide the terms, control when and whether this thing between us got acknowledged. Done being the one who stood still while he walked away.
Tomorrow, I would find him. And we would have the conversation he kept running from, whether he was ready or not.
Because I wasn't Cross. I wasn't going to use his confusion against him, wasn't going to manipulate or punish or play games. But I also wasn't going to let him pretend this away.
He'd kissed me like I mattered. He'd looked at me like I was the answer to a question he'd been afraid to ask.
And I was done being afraid too.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, we would figure this out.
Or we would burn.
9
PRESSURE
TYLER
Iwoke before dawn with a decision already made. The room was gray with early light, the kind of colorless half-dark that made everything look unreal. I lay still for a moment, listening to the silence of the clubhouse around me—the distant hum of the refrigerator in the common room, the creak of old wood settling, the absence of footsteps in the hallway outside my door.
No one pausing. No one walking away.
I sat up and reached under my mattress.
The envelope was where I'd hidden it six days ago, tucked between the mattress and the box spring like a secret I couldn't bear to look at but couldn't bring myself to destroy. The paper was slightly crumpled now, worn soft at the edges from the nights I'd pulled it out and stared at it in the dark, trying todecode what Cross wanted me to do with the fear he'd planted in my chest.
I pulled it out and held it in my hands.
The weight of it was nothing—a few grams of paper, a photograph, a date written in handwriting I knew as well as my own. But it felt heavier than that. It felt like chains.
I see you.
For six days, those words had lived in my head. Every time I'd checked a perimeter, every time I'd startled at a shadow, every time I'd lain awake listening for footsteps that might be coming to finish what the bomb had started—Cross's voice had been there, whispering that he was watching. That he knew where I was. That no matter how far I ran or how hard I fought, I would never be free of him.
I'd let him live in my head rent-free for six fucking days.
No more.
I got dressed in the gray light, pulled on jeans and a shirt and boots that were starting to feel like mine instead of borrowed. The clubhouse was still quiet when I slipped out the back door, the morning air cold enough to bite, the sky just starting to lighten along the eastern horizon.
The fire pit was at the edge of the property, near the treeline where I'd stood with Tank that first night—when he'd found me staring at the darkness, when he'd saidyou can tell meand I'd wanted to but couldn't. A lifetime ago. A week ago. Both.
Someone had left kindling and matches in the metal box beside the pit. I built a small fire the wayI'd learned in survival training, methodical and precise, and watched the flames catch and grow until they were strong enough to consume what I'd brought them.
The envelope sat in my lap.
