“At being domestic. At making my flat feel less like a crime scene.”
“Your flat's not that bad.” He paused. “Okay, it's pretty bad. But I like it anyway.”
“Why?”
He took a bite of toast. “Because you trust me enough to let me see this version of you. The one that forgets to eat and keeps case files under the bed and owns exactly three plates.”
“Four plates.”
“One's chipped. Doesn't count.”
We ate in comfortable silence. He didn't rush me or fill the quiet with unnecessary conversation, just existed beside me while morning light filtered through the blinds and London woke up outside.
“Thank you,” I said eventually.
“For what?”
“This. Being here. Not making it weird.”
Dom set down his fork and looked at me properly. “Cal. We've been doing this for a while now. It stopped being weird when I came over here and cried all over you.” He grinned. “Point is, this is just us now.”
“Us.” I tested the word. “That's terrifying.”
“Yeah. But you're still here. So am I.” He stood and started clearing the plates. “Now shower. You smell like sex and I need to focus today.”
“You love it.”
“I do. But I also have standards.” He kissed the top of my head as he passed. “Shower. Then we'll figure out the rest.”
I watched him wash dishes in my sink, humming something off-key, and felt the tight knot in my chest ease just slightly.
Adrian satbehind his desk looking tired. Not physically—Adrian never looked physically tired—but there was a weight in his expression that suggested he'd spent the night dealing with problems that didn't have clean solutions.
Noah stood near the window.
“Sit,” Adrian said.
We sat.
“Webb has been handled,” Adrian began without preamble. “He's been secured and escorted somewhere safe, out of Harrow's immediate reach and out of London entirely.”
“Handled how?” Dom asked, his voice careful.
Adrian's expression didn't change. “He's alive. Functional. And sufficiently motivated to provide testimony when the time comes.”
“And the information he gave us?” I asked.
“Being verified and cross-referenced. Dmitri's working through the financial records. Luka's checking street-level connections. Troy's identifying security patterns.” Adrian leaned back. “But before Webb was moved, something interesting happened.”
Noah stepped forward. “Webb tried to slip something out. I caught it.”
He placed a folded piece of paper on Adrian's desk and opened it carefully. Showed us a series of numbers and letters, what looked like coordinates or access codes.
“What is this?” Dom asked.
“An archive reference,” I said immediately, my memory pulling at the pattern. “Old system. Pre-digital.”
“Correct.” Noah's expression was grim. “Webb wrote this while we were processing him for transport and tried to hide it in his shoe. When I confronted him, he said it was insurance, proof that he'd tried to help, that he wasn't completely complicit.”
