I know you will. But careful might not be enough.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything we can’t say. I want to touch her, want to ask if she’s okay. There’s more underneath, a tightness around her eyes and carefully controlled stillness that speaks of recent strain. Something I put there, or something new?
The old instinct surfaces from before deep cover rewired everything I knew about human connection. When Nina hurt, I held her. Simple as that. Fourteen, eighteen, twenty-two—every time the world cut too deep, she’d show up at my door or, if I could, I’d show up at hers, and I’d pull her in and she’d let go of whatever she’d been white-knuckling. I was her safe place before Wyatt existed, before the DEA or the Agency, before Vicente Amador turned me into someone who flinches at his own tenderness. And right now, I can see her wanting it—the almost-imperceptible lean toward me, the way her fingers press into her own arms like she’s holding herself together because no one else is.
Instead, I shove my hands in my pockets and try to look like this is just business.
“Chris,” Nina says suddenly, her voice softer.
I look up.
“Callie texted earlier. Mason’s doing a barbecue sometime next week.” She pauses. “If you’re still in LA, you should come.”
The invitation stops me cold. Not because I don’t want to, but because it means I’ll have to tell my sister I’m in town. I’ll have to explain why I didn’t call.
And Mason. Fuck. Mason’s going to take one look at me and know exactly what I’ve done. He’s going to see through every professional justification I’ve constructed, straight to the messy, desperate truth underneath.
But Nina’s offering me something here. A safe space where we can actually talk without the weight of surveillance and professional boundaries pressing down on us.
“I...” I start, then stop. Clear my throat. “I didn’t tell her I was coming.”
“I figured.” There’s something almost gentle in her voice. “But she’d want to see you. They both would.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say, which is a lie. I’m already thinking about it. Already running through the logistics, the risks, the way Callie’s face will look when she realizes I’ve been keeping secrets.
“Good.” Nina glances at her watch. “I should?—”
A soft knock interrupts us. The door opens slightly and Darius pokes his head in, his eyes flicking briefly to me before focusing on Nina.
“Ms. Petrov is ready,” he says quietly.
Nina’s head turns toward the door, then back to me. “I shouldn’t keep her waiting.”
I nod, stepping back. Creating distance. Returning to the professional space we’re supposed to inhabit.
“I’ll be in reception,” I say. “When you’re finished.”
“Of course.”
She moves to the door, her hand on the handle. For a moment, she pauses.
“Chris?”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful.”
And then she’s opening the door, transforming back into Dr. Nina Palmer, trauma specialist, as she greets the woman who spent the better part of six hours systematically dismantling my emotional defenses.
I follow her out, watching as she extends a professional hand to Tatiana.
“Ms. Petrov. Please, come in.”
Tatiana’s pale eyes flick to me briefly with a look that says This is what you came for, before she follows Nina into the office.
The door closes.
I sit in one of the chairs by the window, trying to look casual. Professional. Like I’m not coming apart at the seams.
