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"He was just a kid. And they turned him into a weapon. And I gave him food two hours before he killed three people I was supposed to keep safe." He picks up his mug and stares at it. "After that, I couldn't do it anymore. Couldn't make those calls. Couldn't lead men into situations where any decision might be the wrong one. So I came home."

"That wasn't your fault."

"I know. Logically I know. My therapist has told me that approximately eight hundred times. But it doesn't change the fact that I handed that kid an MRE and two hours later he was dead and so were three of my guys."

"You see a therapist?"

"Every other week. VA set me up with someone after I got back. Thought I'd go a few times and be done. Turns out there's a lot to unpack."

The vulnerability in admitting that does something to me.

Trevor never went to therapy. Said he didn't need it, that therapy was for people who couldn't handle their problems on their own. But Kieran just told me he goes every other week like it's no big deal.

"What do you unpack?" I ask.

"Survivor's guilt mostly. The feeling that I should've been able to save them. That if I'd been better or smarter or faster, they'd still be alive." He sets the mug down. "My therapist says I use my job here as a way to avoid dealing with personal relationships. That I hide behind the badge because it lets me help people without actually letting them in."

"Is she right?"

"Probably."

"So why are you here? With me?"

He turns to look at me, and there's something vulnerable in his expression that makes my breath catch. "Because you're the first person in years who's made me want to let someone in."

The words land in the space between us, honest and a little terrifying.

I don't know what to say. Don't know how to respond to that kind of openness when I'm barely holding my own life together.

"I'm a mess," I say finally. "I ran away from my ex-boyfriend who won't leave me alone. I'm living in a rental cottage in the middle of nowhere because I'm too scared to go back to my own city. I can't finish a logo because I can't focus. I'm not someone you should want to let in."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't have my life together. Because I'm still figuring out who I am without someone telling me what to think. Because I might be completely wrong about you and not realize it until it's too late."

"Or you might be right about me."

"How do I know which one it is?"

"You don't. Not for sure. But Lyla, you left. You packed up your entire life and started over somewhere new because you knew staying was wrong. That's not someone with bad instincts. That's someone with good instincts who's learning to trust them again."

I want to believe him. I want to take his words and hold them close and let them be true.

But there's a part of me that still hears Trevor's voice saying I'm dramatic, that I'm overreacting, that I don't know what I actually want.

"I think I'm supposed to be more cautious," I say quietly. "We just met today. I don't know you. This could be a terrible idea."

"It could be."

"But I don't want to be cautious."

"Then don't."

We're looking at each other now, close enough that I can see the silver threading through his beard, the lines at the corners of his eyes, the way he's holding himself very still like he's trying not to spook me.

I lean in and kiss him.

He responds immediately but lets me control it. Lets me set the pace, decide how deep it goes, figure out what I want.