"You are. You're trying too hard. I can feel it." She tilted her head, studying me the way she might study a scan that didn't quite make sense. "What's wrong?"
I opened my mouth to deny it again, but the words caught in my throat.
Maya deserved honesty. Maybe not all of it. Maybe not the part where I'd kept my ex-wife's pen for six years or walked into a door frame because I couldn't stop looking at her. But something closer to truth than what I'd been offering.
"The protocol's been taking up a lot of mental space," I said. "Work stuff. It's stressful."
"Is it the protocol?" Her voice was gentle but direct. "Or is it who you're working with?"
My hand froze around my water glass. "What do you mean?"
"Cassian." She reached across the table and covered my hand with hers. "I know Calla's back. Riven mentioned it to Mireya, and Mireya told me. I was waiting for you to bring it up yourself."
The restaurant noise faded to a distant hum. I could hear my own heartbeat, too fast, too loud.
"There's nothing to bring up. We're colleagues. We're working together professionally."
"And that's all?"
"That's all."
Maya went quiet. She traced circles on the back of my hand absently.
"I'm not trying to start a fight," she said. "I'm not accusing you of anything. I just want you to know that if this is hard for you, you can talk to me about it. I'm not going to be irrational just because your ex-wife works in the same building."
"I know you won't. Because there's nothing to worry about." I turned my hand over and laced my fingers through hers. "I love you. I chose you. Calla is my past."
"Okay."
But her eyes held questions she didn't ask. I could see them there, swimming beneath the surface of her acceptance, and I hated that I'd put them there.
I hated that I couldn't make them disappear.
We finished dinner. I paid the bill and helped her with her jacket. She leaned back into me for a moment, a small gesture of trust that made my stomach twist with guilt.
The drive home was quiet. Maya rested her hand on my thigh, her thumb tracing absent patterns through the fabric ofmy pants. I kept my eyes on the road and tried not to think about how natural and easy this should feel.
"Thank you for tonight," she said as I pulled into our parking garage. "It was really nice."
"You deserve nice things."
She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I know something's bothering you, Cassian. And I know you're not ready to talk about it. But when you are, I'm here. Okay?"
"Okay."
We walked to the elevator together, her hand in mine. She leaned her head against my shoulder while we waited, and I pressed a kiss to her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo.
This was my life now. This woman. This apartment. This future we were building together.
It should be enough.
When we got inside, Maya headed for the bedroom to change while I lingered in the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of water I didn't want. I reached into my jacket pocket for my phone.
My fingers brushed against something else.
The pen.
I grabbed it without thinking when I left the office. It was muscle memory for the past six years, overriding conscious intention. I told myself I was putting it away, and then I picked it right back up.
