“I called you distracting.”
“That is not romance.”
“It is when I say it.”
She tries not to smile and fails.
God, I love her.
The thought moves through me without resistance.
I used to think love would feel like weakness. Like compromised judgment. Like a door left open, exposed.
I was wrong.
Love is not the absence of fear.
I fear more now than I ever did before. I fear for her. For the baby. For the life we are building in a world that will always be dangerous.
But the fear does not make me weaker.
It makes the purpose clearer.
We continue down the path until the garden opens near the west side.
The utility enclosure is hidden better now, behind a new stone screen and locked access panel. The grass has been replaced. The blood is gone. The damaged shrubs removed. The stone cleaned. The camera angle corrected.
Everything repaired.
Nothing forgotten.
Caterina’s hand tightens in mine.
We both stop at the same time.
This is the spot.
There is no marker. No visible scar in the ground. No sign that I bled out here while a man tried to choke the life from me.
But we know.
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
The evening is quiet around us. Somewhere near the front of the property, one of my people checks in over the earpiece. I hear the faint murmur but do not answer. Andrew can handle it.
Caterina stares at the grass.
“I still see it sometimes,” she says.
“I know.”
Her voice drops. “You were so still.”
I turn toward her.
She is looking at the place where she found me, but her hand is on her stomach now.
Always there when the memory gets too close.
