“The suppressants are fine. I just pushed my Heat off for too long.” My attention switches to Rowan. “I’m more concerned about missing work.”
“The Blue Note security upgrades are ahead of schedule,” Rowan responds. “Nothing urgent is waiting for you.”
“Not the Blue Note.” I toss the sodden papertowel into the trash. “The Harmon job. The files are missing from your tablet.”
A brief flicker crosses Rowan’s face, too quick to name but enough to confirm my suspicions.
Lena’s focus jumps between us, sensing the shift in atmosphere.
“I canceled it,” Rowan says, as if announcing a change in dinner plans rather than the elimination of weeks of preparation.
“You what?”
“Canceled it.” He turns to rinse his mug in the sink, his back to me. “The risk-reward ratio wasn’t favorable.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides. “That’s not your call.”
“Actually, it is.” Water runs over his hands, the sound loud in the tense kitchen. “You need recovery time after your Heat. The job can wait.”
“I don’t need recovery time.” My volume rises despite my efforts to contain it. “I’ve worked in worse condition than this.”
Rowan shuts off the water and grabs a towel to dry off as he turns to me. “That was before. This is now.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Heat climbs myneck, different from the fever of days past. Anger, rather than need.
Lena slides off her stool, edging toward the hallway. “I should go study…”
“No,” I say, at the same time Rowan says, “Yes.”
We stare at each other, the challenge hanging between us.
Lena hesitates, caught in our power struggle, before grabbing her backpack and disappearing down the hall. As her bedroom door closes, it snaps the leash on my anger.
“You had no right to cancel the Harmon job.” I step closer to Rowan. “We’ve spent weeks planning. The timing is crucial.”
“I had every right.” Rowan crosses his arms over his chest, his stance widening. “You’re still recovering. Your reflexes are compromised, and your focus is shot.”
“Don’t tell me what I can handle.” The coffee churns in my stomach, turning to bitter acid. “I understand my limits better than you do.”
“Do you?” His eyebrows lift. “Because from where I stand, you’ve been pushing past reasonable limits for years.”
The truth in his assessment only fuels my anger. “That’s not your concern.”
“It is when it affects the job.” His voice hardens, the easy warmth from earlier evaporating. “I won’t risk an operation because you refuse to acknowledge physical limitations.”
“So what, you get to unilaterally decide?” My nails bite into palms, the pain grounding my anger. “Without consulting me? Without even telling me?”
“I made a judgment call.”
“A judgment call.” I laugh, the sound harsh in the quiet kitchen. “And when were you planning to inform me? After my Heat ended? Tomorrow, when I showed up ready to work? Or were you hoping I just wouldn’t notice the files were gone?”
Rowan’s jaw tightens. “I was going to tell you today, once you’d had time to recover.”
“Bullshit.” The word cracks between us like a whip. “You knew I’d fight you on this.”
“Yes,” he admits, “which is why I made the decision while you were in no condition to argue.”
The betrayal cuts deeper than I expected, slicing through the warm haze left by days in his bed, in his arms, lost to Heat and need and the illusion of a real partnership.
