The question hung in the air, familiar and impossible. An inside joke from another lifetime. Something only nine people in the world would know.
My throat worked.
"He's the one who thinks sports are for fun."
Silence. Then: "Close enough. I remember it being funnier."
"Humor died at sixteen."
A low chuckle. "Fair."
I lowered the gun and unlocked the door.
Connor Ward stood in the hallway.
Older. Harder around the edges. But unmistakablyhim—sharp eyes that had tracked threats on the ballfield at St. Paul's, controlled stillness that came from knowing exactly how dangerous you were.
Relief hit like a fist to the chest.
I hadn't realized how much tension I'd been carrying until it released all at once.
"Hello, Kane," Connor said carefully.
I wondered what I looked like to him. Shirtless, bleeding, gun in hand, living in a Bangkok shithole because it was the only place that didn't ask questions.
Before I could think better of it, I stepped across the threshold and pulled him into a hug.
The contact startled us both.
I wasn't a hugger. Hadn't been since before St. Paul's, definitely not after. Physical touch meant vulnerability. Openings.
But something in my chest cracked—just for a second—and I needed proof Connor was real. That I wasn't alone in this. That someone frombeforestill existed.
I released him quickly, covering the moment with a rough clearing of my throat.
"What the hell are you doing in Bangkok?"
Connor's expression softened. "Can I come in?"
I moved aside, letting him enter, then locked the door. Three locks. Deadbolt. Chain.
Old habits.
"Sorry about the ..." I gestured vaguely at my bare chest, the blood-stained gauze.
Connor's eyes swept the apartment—sparse furniture, weapons he'd already cataloged, the bag by the door that never got fully unpacked.
"How'd the fight go?"
"I won."
He smiled faintly. "You always win."
I almost laughed. "What are you doing here, Connor?"
"I'm here to help."
The automatic response rose in my throat—I don't need help. That's what I'd tell anyone else. What I'd been telling myself for years.
