“Lila is my friend.” But even as I protest, doubt creeps in. “She wouldn't be involved in this.
“Perhaps not willingly.” Kiren moves to the window, looking out at the city. “But coincidences are rarely coincidental in my world.”
“Your world isn't my world,” I snap, crossing my arms over my chest.
He looks back at me, and there's something almost sad in his expression. “It is now, Rowan. Whether you want it to be or not.”
I sink onto the couch, tension gathering in my limbs. My independence, control, and certainty about who I can trust are slipping away, replaced by fear, doubt, and the terrifying realization that I don't know how to protect myself or the people I care about.
Kiren sits beside me, close enough that I feel less alone.
“I'll look into him,” he promises quietly. “Discreetly. If he's innocent, Lila will never know we checked.”
“And if he's not?”
“Then I'll handle it.”
The calm certainty in his voice should frighten me. Instead, it's almost comforting.
“I don’t want Lila anywhere near this,” I say, the words firm before I have time to soften them. “She wouldn’t get mixed up in something like this. And I won’t have her hurt because of me.”
His eyes hold mine for a moment longer.
“She won’t be,” he replies.
I nod once, accepting the promise even as unease lingers. Whatever this is, Lila doesn’t belong in it. I’m certain of that.
I close my eyes, letting myself lean into Kiren's solid presence. Outside, the city sprawls in the gathering dusk, full of secrets, danger, and people who want things I don't understand. And here, in this beautiful cage, I'm starting to wonder if safety andfreedom can ever really coexist, or if choosing one means sacrificing the other forever.
“I'm frustrated.” I face him now, looking into those dark eyes. “I appreciate what you're doing, I do. But I'm not used to being watched constantly. I'm not used to living in a place where I'm afraid to touch anything because it probably costs more than my student loans.”
“You can touch whatever you want.” There's almost amusement in his tone.
“That's not the point.”
“What is the point,moya?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with meaning I'm not sure I want to unpack. Because the point is that this feels too intimate. The point is that every time he shows up, I'm hyperaware of him in a way that has nothing to do with gratitude or fear.
“The point is I had a life before all this,” I tell him. “I had independence. Control.”
“And now you have safety.” His expression doesn't change. “Given the choice, which would you prefer?”
I want to argue, but I can't. Not when there's truth in what he offers.
“I should get dinner,” I announce, needing distance from whatever this moment is becoming.
“I brought dinner.”
“You brought dinner?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, Kiren turns toward the kitchen with the same relaxed confidence he brings to everything else, as if my surprise is expected and therefore unremarkable.
“I brought ingredients,” he corrects calmly. “Dinner implies completion.”
I follow, despite myself, leaning against the counter as he shrugs out of his jacket and rolls the sleeves of his black tailored shirt to his forearms. The movement is familiar, fluid in a way that suggests habit. He washes his hands thoroughly, then reaches into the refrigerator. Olive oil. Fresh herbs bundled in a damp paper towel. A cut of salmon already portioned, a bowl of cherry tomatoes, garlic, and a lemon scored cleanly down the middle.
“You can cook,” I say, more statement than question.
