Page 50 of You, Only You

The drive back to the city was different. The landscape hadn't changed, same flat fields, same gray highway, same signs ticking off miles, but I had. Or something in me had. The anger that I'd been carrying for ten years had loosened, not its grip exactly, but its shape. It was less like a fist and more like an open hand. Still there. Just not clenched anymore.

My father was right about one thing: the question wasn't about rules. It wasn't even about Will's methods or my methods or where the line was. It was about trust. Specifically, about whether I could trust myself to see clearly after twenty-four years of evidence that my own perception was unreliable.

He'd stolen that from me. He'd said so himself. And Will, by installing that tracker, had poked the exact bruise. Had confirmed the fear that I couldn't trust the people closest to me. That the people who said "I love you" might also be the people who were lying.

But Will had also deleted the app. Had sat in the dark. Had called his sister. Had stood on the balcony and let me decide whether to reach for him.

My father had never done any of those things. Not once, in twenty-four years.

That was the distinction I'd been looking for. Not in the theory. In the evidence.

Will was in the kitchen when I let myself into the penthouse. He wasn't cooking, just leaning against the counter, a cup of coffee in his hands. The evening light slanted through the windows, painting everything gold.

He didn't ask where I'd been. Didn't push for details. Just looked at me with those ice-blue eyes, reading my face the way he always did, like I was a document he was reviewing for hidden clauses.

"I'm not going anywhere," I said.

The words were simple. They carried everything.

He set down his coffee cup slowly. His eyes searched mine, looking for doubt, maybe, or hesitation. Finding neither.

"I know," he said quietly. "I'm glad."

Two words. No speech. No dramatic declaration. Just "I'm glad," said in a voice that sounded like a man who'd been holding his breath and finally let it out.

"The operation tonight," I said. "Eric Mendez."

"Starts in six hours."

"Then we should get ready."

He nodded but didn't move. Neither did I. We stood there in the golden light, close enough to touch but not quite touching. The space between us was different now. Not empty. Full. Full of all the conversations we'd had and the ones we still needed to have and the terrifying, exhilarating fact that we were both still here, still choosing this, still walking toward whatever came next instead of running from it.

"Lindsey." His voice was rough. "Whatever happens tonight..."

"We're in this together," I finished. "All the way."

The corner of his mouth moved. Not quite a smile. But close. Close enough.

"All the way."

I reached up and touched his face, the same gesture I'd made during the tracking app fight, but different now. This time, I wasn't trying to break through anything. The walls were already down. This was just me, touching the face of a man I loved, because I wanted to, and because wanting to was allowed.

He leaned into my touch, just slightly. His hand came up to cover mine, holding it against his face.

We stayed like that for a moment. Then, by unspoken agreement, we stepped apart.

There would be time for the rest of it. After Mendez. After Reeves. After all of it.

"I'll start prepping the equipment," Will said, already moving toward the secure bag by the door.

"I'll review the security window protocols one more time."

He paused at the doorway and looked back at me. "Lindsey?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For coming back."