“Yes.” No hesitation. Despite everything. Despite the fractures between us. “I trust you.”
“Good boy.” I guided him to the bedroom. Sat him on the edge of the bed. “Now tell me the piece you've been holding back. The thing about Lily's case that you haven't said yet.”
Cal went very still. “How did you know?—”
“Because I know you. Know when you're editing yourself. Know the particular way you phrase things when you're protecting me from information you think I can't handle.” I crouched in front of him. Made him meet my eyes. “Tell me. All of it.”
He took a breath. “Harrow didn't just want the case closed. He wanted it rewritten. Wanted every trace of what actually happened destroyed so completely that truth became impossible to prove.”
“Why?”
“Because Lily didn't just see something. She documented it. Had evidence. Was preparing to go public with a corruption case that would have destroyed everyone involved.” Cal's voice was flat. “She died because she was competent. Because she gathered proof. Because she wouldn't back down when threatened.”
“So they killed her. Made it look like domestic tragedy. Convicted Ethan to close the loop. And destroyed every piece of evidence that suggested different narrative.”
“Yes.”
“Who was she investigating?”
“I don't know yet.” Cal's hands fisted in the sheets. “And the proof is in Harrow's inner archive. The files he keeps for insurance. The ones that document everything so he can control everyone.”
“Then that's our next target.” I stood. “We get into that archive. We get the proof. We destroy him with his own documentation.”
“That's suicide. Harrow's inner archive is locked down. Protected by security we can't breach?—”
“We'll find a way.” I pulled him to his feet. “But first you're going to let me steady you.”
“I don't need?—”
He knelt for me, body bowed but not broken, submission offered like confession. The tears that came next were silent at first, shoulders shaking beneath my hands, the sound barely more than a shudder in his breath. I let him cry, let the grief work through him in waves—held him there, steady as the tide, hands gliding over bare skin in slow, grounding circles. Just the two of us. No outside world, no danger, no past mistakes to pay for—only this: my body, his breath, the safe echo of my voice in his ear.
“It’s all right, Cal,” I murmured, low and even. “Let it out. You don’t have to hold it together with me. Not now.”
He shook once, hard, then leaned into me as if he’d finally surrendered the last sliver of sanity that he had left. His head bowed, cheek pressed to my thigh, and I kept one hand on his nape, thumb moving in slow, repetitive strokes—steady, constant, as sure as heartbeat. This was what I could give: certainty in the aftermath, structure when the world offered none.
When his tears quieted, I moved around to face him, crouching low so our eyes met. His lashes were spiked and wet, mouth trembling, chest still shuddering with aftershocks. I wiped his cheeks with my thumbs, the gesture gentle, more lover than taskmaster.
“Look at me,” I said, soft but firm. “Breathe,” I reminded, mirroring the slow rise and fall of my chest until he matched it. When he steadied, I pressed a kiss to his brow. “You did good. That’s enough for me.”
He tried to laugh, but it came out as a broken sound—half relief, half despair. “You shouldn’t have to keep saving me.”
I shook my head, letting my fingers drift down to his throat—a promise, not a threat. “I don’t save you because I have to. I do it because I want to. Because I choose you, over and over. Even when it’s hard. Even when you make me want to shake sense into you.”
His lips quirked, faintly. “I can be good. For you. I want to be?—”
I shushed him, pressing another kiss to his temple. “You are good. Even when you’re impossible.”
He was still trembling, adrenaline and exhaustion clashing under his skin. My hands mapped his skin, careful over bruises, lingering at the places where violence had left its mark. I touched him everywhere he’d been hurt, letting the pressure reassure, not dominate.
“Let me take care of you,” I whispered. “Just let me, for a little while.”
But Cal turned in my arms, sudden and sure, his mouth finding mine with a force that nearly stole my breath. His kiss was desperate, messy, hungry. He tasted like salt and adrenaline and the remnants of the tears I’d coaxed out of him, and when I cupped his jaw, he bit at my lower lip like he was daring me to tell him to slow down.
“You’re gorgeous,” I murmured between kisses, meaning every word, letting my voice go rough with it. “All of you. Bruises and all.”
That startled a laugh out of him, cracked and hoarse but real—a sound that made me want to pull him even closer. “You need your eyes checked,” he said, but I saw the flush in his cheeks, the way he ducked his head for half a second before meeting my gaze again. I caught his mouth in another kiss, this one slower, lingering, then broke away to press my lips to the shadowed bruise blooming across his collarbone.
One by one, I kissed each mark, each place where the world had tried to break him.
