The words knock the air right out of me. “Harper…”
“You said you don’t do that anymore,” she says, small and fierce, her little chin trembling. “You promised.”
“I know, sweetheart,” I say softly, crouching beside her. “I’m tryin’ to find a way not to.”
Her eyes fill. “Then don’t.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
Because we need the money. Because I can’t lose this job. Because being the sole parent sometimes means making choices that break your own heart.
But she’s six, she shouldn’t have to understand that kind of reality.
So instead, I reach out and take her hand. “I’ll figure somethin’ out, okay? I’m not going anywhere without making sure you’re taken care of.”
Her bottom lip wobbles. “Miss Jade would’ve stayed with me.”
“I know,” I whisper. “And if she were here, she would.”
“I miss her.” Tears now streaming down her pink cheeks.
“Me too, Bug.” I say, her small body melting against my chest as her little heartbeat presses against mine, warm and trusting. The most fragile sound in the world.
“I don’t want you to go,” she says into my shirt.
“I don’t wanna go either.”
And we stay like that for a while, the dinner forgotten, the house dim except for the glow from the stove light.
After I tuck her into bed that night, I sit at my desk, staring at the open laptop. The live security feeds flicker on the screen, grainy cameras, empty parking lots, motion sensors pinging every so often.
I used to crave this—movement, unpredictability, adrenaline.
Now all I want is routine.
My phone buzzes.
Security Ops:
Floating status effective
immediately. End date: TBD.
Estimated 3–4 weeks.
Another buzz, seconds later.
Porter:First Assignment:
Overnight detail in Pasadena.
I’ll send the details to your email.
I stare at the screen.
Overnight.
