Zach waited, understanding she needed space to find her words.
“I swore I’d never do that—give up my life for a man.” Emma’s voice went quiet. “But lately I just feel… alone. I build these teams, create relationships with the people I hire and work with. Then the project ends, and I move on to the next one. I’ll never see most of them again.”
She turned to look at him, and something in her eyes made Zach’s chest constrict.
“I’m good at what I do,” Emma continued, “…but sometimes I wonder if I’m my mother after all, in the opposite way. She gaveup her dreams for connection. I’m giving up connection for my dreams. I don’t know which one of us made the right choice.”
The honesty in her voice cut through his carefully maintained defenses. She wasn’t asking for advice or reassurance. She was… sharing. Trusting him with something real and unguarded.
Most people didn’t share with him. They noticed the scars, the weapons, the threat he represented, and kept their distance. They wanted the Guardian—the protector, the weapon—but not the man.
Emma had never treated him like that.
“You’re not alone now,” Zach said finally. The words felt inadequate, but they were true.
“No.” Emma’s smile was small and genuine. “I’m not.”
She waited, patient in a way he wasn't accustomed to. Not pushing, not demanding. Just… there. Present.
He swallowed another mouthful of rum punch, feeling the warmth spread through his gut. The alcohol was loosening something in him, a controlled restraint he ordinarily maintained. Or maybe it was Emma. The way she looked at him, like he was more than sharp edges and threat assessments.
“What I am… it's not what you think,” he heard himself say.
Emma’s attention fixed on him, brow furrowed, but she didn’t interrupt.
“What comes with it…” Zach leaned his head back against the cushion, looking up at the stars. “The constant vigilance. The inability to just… be. Every room is a tactical assessment—every person a potential threat.”
His fingers tightened around the glass. “David and Nick are the only ones who understand and accept the life that comes with it. We’ve all paid the same price. Distance.”
Zach met her eyes, darkened to almost black in the starlight, infinite and understanding.
“You can’t let people close when caring about someone turns them into a target.” He shrugged. "Most don’t get close anyway. Something in them reacts when I do. It may not be a conscious choice, but they step back."
The familiar weight of the knife at his side was a constant reminder of what he was. “Anyone I care about becomes leverage against me.”
Emma was quiet for a long moment. Then she set her glass down and shifted to face him.
“That sounds lonely,” she said.
“It’s necessary.”
“Perhaps.” She tilted her head. “Or maybe it’s what you’ve convinced yourself is necessary.”
The observation landed harder than expected. He wanted to argue, to list the tactical and strategic reasons for emotional distance. But Emma wasn’t looking at him with pity or judgment. She was peering into him like she saw past the Guardian to something underneath.
“I think you’re so busy protecting everyone else that you’ve forgotten how to let anyone protect you.” Her voice was calm, certain. “Or maybe you never learned how.”
Her truth resonated through Zach like a blade striking stone. Sharp and undeniable.
They gazed at each other across the small space between their chairs. The night pressed close around them, intimate and still. He took in every detail—the way Emma’s hair fell over her shoulder, the slight flush the rum brought to her cheeks, the steady rhythm of her breathing.
Something shifted.
Emma leaned forward.
Zach found himself mirroring the movement, his body responding before his mind could catalog the tactical implications. His awareness narrowed to her—the curve of hermouth, the understanding in her eyes that made him feel less like a weapon and more like a man.
Closer. Her scent enveloped him: sandalwood and vanilla, and something uniquely Emma. His hand strayed toward her face.
