"Do you believe that?"
"Sometimes. When I'm pushing my team too hard, or when I catch myself using my father's phrases, or when I..." I stop.
"When you what?"
"When I remember that I knew about Trevor. Saw him being hazed and did nothing. Doesn't matter how much I change now. That happened."
Lennox stands and moves closer. "Carter, listen to me. You can't undo the past, but you can learn from it. That's what accountability means. Not perfection. Just consistently trying to be better."
"What if trying isn't enough?"
"It's all any of us have." She reaches out, hesitates, then puts her hand on my arm. "You're not your father. I've seen enough to know that. The way you lead your team, the way you care about your sister, the way you're actually grappling with these questions instead of dismissing them, that's not performance. That's real."
I look at her hand on my arm. At her face, serious and certain. At the way, she's looking at me like she sees something worth defending.
"Why are you being nice to me? After everything, the article, the difficult interviews, me making your job harder, why are you here?"
"Because somewhere in the past few weeks, you stopped being just a source and started being a person I care about." She says it simply, like it's obvious. "And people I care about don't face their asshole fathers alone."
"Lennox—"
"I know this complicates things. The article, theprofessional boundaries, all of it. But I can't pretend anymore that this is just journalism." She steps closer. "Can you?"
"No." The word comes out rough. "I can't pretend either."
We're standing so close now. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. Close enough to notice she's been biting her lip. Close enough that if I just leaned forward?—
"This is a bad idea," she whispers.
"Terrible idea," I agree.
"We should maintain professional distance."
"Absolutely should."
Neither of us moves away.
"Carter—"
I kiss her.
It's not gentle or tentative. It's everything I've been holding back for weeks, frustration, attraction and the desperate need to feel something other than the fear that's been eating at me since my father walked into that hotel.
She kisses me back just as fiercely. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer. My hands find her waist, her hair, trying to memorize the feeling of her against me.
We break apart, breathing hard.
"Fuck," Lennox says eloquently.
"Yeah."
"We can't do this. I'm writing about you. There are ethics violations, conflict of interest?—"
"I know."
"And your father is going to be at the game tomorrow and I have an article due Monday. And this is the worst possible timing?—"
"I know." I rest my forehead against hers. "But I don't care. Do you?"
