Page 84 of You, Only You

"The press is going to want statements. The U.S. Attorney's office is handling the official narrative, but there'll be questions about the forensic analysis."

"We'll stay out of it." Will's voice was firm. "The spotlight belongs to the victims."

Bates nodded, respect clear in his eyes. "I'll make sure your names stay out of the headlines."

He disappeared back into the chaos, and Will turned to me.

"Let's go home."

Home. The word felt strange. The penthouse wasn't really home, it was a fortress, a place where we'd hidden and fought and nearly lost each other. But right now, it was the only place I wanted to be.

We slipped out a side entrance, avoiding the press, and drove back in silence. Not uncomfortable silence, the kind that comeswhen you've both said everything that needs saying and just need to exist in the same space.

The penthouse was quiet when we arrived. The oppressive tension that had lived in these walls for weeks was gone, replaced by something vast and uncertain. I found myself standing at the kitchen island, watching Will pour two glasses of whiskey.

"The case is over," I said.

He pushed a glass toward me. "It is."

I took a sip, the amber liquid burning pleasantly. "So what happens now?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean—" I set the glass down, struggling to articulate the question that had been gnawing at me. "What are we without it? Without the crisis?"

Will went still, his own glass halfway to his lips.

"We came together because someone was trying to kill me," I continued. "We worked together because there was a trafficking ring to expose. We fought and made up and fell in love while everything was on fire." I met his eyes. "What happens when the fire goes out?"

The silence stretched. I watched him process the question, saw the flicker of uncertainty he couldn't quite hide.

"I don't know," he admitted finally. "I've never—" He stopped. Started again. "Relationships aren't something I'm good at. Without a crisis to manage, I don't know if I'm capable of?—"

"Of what? Being normal?"

"Of being enough." The words came out rough, almost reluctant. "Without an enemy to fight, without something to protect you from, I don't know what I have to offer."

The vulnerability in his voice touched me. This was the fear underneath all his control, not that he'd fail to protect me, but that without protection to offer, he'd have nothing.

"Will." I moved around the island to stand in front of him. "Look at me."

He did. Those blue eyes that had been so cold when I first met him were anything but cold now.

"We're both workaholics with catastrophic trust issues," I said. "We met because I was auditing you for ethics violations during your secret vigilante campaign. We've been shot at, run off the road, and had this apartment invaded by armed men." I reached up and touched his face. "Ordinary was never on the table for us. It wasn't even in the building."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "So what is on the table?"

"I don't know." I let my hand slide down to rest on his chest, over his heart. "But I want to find out. Move in with me. Not here, this place has too many ghosts. Somewhere new. Somewhere that's ours."

"You want to keep going." It wasn't quite a question. "Even knowing I'll fall back into old patterns. Even knowing I'm?—"

"Difficult? Controlling? Prone to thinking you need to manage every breath I take?" I smiled. "Yes. Because I'm also difficult and guarded, and I have my own patterns to break. We're both works in progress, Will. But I'd rather figure it out with you than without you."

He stared at me for a long moment. Then he leaned down and kissed me softly, slowly, like a promise being made.

"Okay," he said against my lips. "Let's find out."

The next three days were strange and peaceful. We looked at apartment listings online, which felt absurdly domestic after everything we'd been through. We cooked meals without discussing case strategies. We slept late and woke up tangled together and had conversations about nothing important.