"Don't sound so surprised."
"I'm not surprised. I'm..." She paused, searching for the word. "Charmed. Against my better judgment."
"Is that allowed? Being charmed by your husband?"
"I don't know. I've never had a husband before." She took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Your turn. Ask me something."
"What's your favorite thing to do when you're not being a therapist?"
"I walk," she said. "For hours, sometimes. No destination, no purpose. Just moving through the city, watching people, making up stories about their lives." She smiled, a little self-conscious. "It sounds strange when I say it out loud."
"It doesn't sound strange. It sounds like you need the same thing I need from cooking. A way to quiet your mind."
"Maybe." She pushed her empty plate away. "I also bake. Obsessively, when I'm stressed. Cookies, mostly. My apartment was always full of cookies I couldn't possibly eat."
"Cookies."
"Don't judge me."
"I'm not judging. I'm filing away information for future use." I collected our plates, carried them to the sink. "When this is over, I'm going to expect cookies."
"When this is over." She was quiet for a moment. "Do you think it will ever be over? Really over?"
I considered lying. Giving her the reassurance she probably wanted, the promise that everything would be fine. But she deserved better than that.
"The Petrovics are a problem we can solve," I said. "Cormac, too. There will always be other problems—that's the nature of this life. But the immediate threat? Yes. That will end."
"And then what?"
"Then we figure out what comes next." I turned to face her, leaning against the counter. "I know this isn't what you wanted. I know you built a whole life specifically to avoid ending up here. But you're here now. And I'm not going to pretend I know what the future looks like, because I don't. I just know that I'd like to find out. With you."
She stared at me, and I saw the conflict in her eyes—the part of her that wanted to believe warring with the part that had learned the hard way not to trust.
"That's a lot to say," she said quietly.
"I know."
"I don't know if I can give you the same thing back. Not yet."
"I'm not asking you to."
"Then what are you asking?"
I crossed the kitchen, closing the distance between us until I was standing in front of her stool, close enough to touch but not touching. "I'm asking you to stay. Not because you have to—not because of the Petrovics or the marriage or any of the circumstances that brought you here. But because you want to. Because you think this might be worth exploring."
"And if I'm not sure yet?"
"Then I'll wait until you are."
She looked up at me, and I saw something shift in her expression. The walls were still there, but they were thinner now. More permeable.
"You're very patient," she said. "For a man in your line of work."
"I have hidden depths."
"I'm beginning to realize that."
She reached up and touched my face—just her fingertips against my jaw, the lightest contact. I held still, letting her set the pace, letting her decide what happened next.
