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“Zeke,” she says softly, cutting through my defenses like a knife. “What’s really at stake here?”

Her words twist in my gut, forcing me to confront a truth I’d rather ignore. Maybe it is about her after all. Maybe it’s about what she represents—the possibility of connection that feels so far out of reach for someone like me.

As much as I try to shake it off, the realization sinks in—this isn’t just about Eve being a cop or our past. It’s about how her very existence reminds me of everything I’ve chosen to run from—everything I’ve already lost once—love, vulnerability, the idea that I could be worthy of either.

A memory flashes through my mind: me as that scared kid in foster care, always on guard because no one ever truly wanted me around. No one wants the broken pieces of a man shaped by violence and betrayal. I swallow hard, anger threatening to break through my carefully constructed control.

“You think I don’t want love?” The question bursts out before I can hold it back. “Look at me. Look at what I’ve done.”

Dr. Stone remains calm and composed, waiting for my internal storm to settle before responding.

“And yet,” she finally replies gently, “you keep circling back to this feeling of unworthiness. What happened to Clara wasn’t your fault.”

“Why do I even bother?” I snap, my voice harsher than intended. “You think I can just flip a switch and become this person worthy of love?”

Dr. Stone holds my gaze, her eyes unwavering. “It’s not about flipping a switch, Zeke. It’s about understanding the wiring that’s been in place for so long.”

I huff, leaning back in my chair, arms crossed tight over my chest. The more she pokes at these hidden layers, the more uncomfortable it gets. It’s like she’s pulling at a thread on an old sweater—loose enough to unravel everything.

“Accepting who you are is difficult when all you see are your failures,” she continues. “But those failures don’t define your worth.”

My jaw clenches at her words. She doesn’t know the half of it. Every misstep—every choice I made to protect myself or those I care about—sits heavy on my conscience like ten thousand pounds of concrete.

“Sure, tell me how I should feel better about running from my past,” I shoot back, feeling that familiar anger simmering below the surface.

“Running isn’t the answer.” She leans forward, her expression softening as she senses the crack forming in my defenses. “What you see as failures are just experiences that shaped you into who you are now.”

I stare at her for a moment, absorbing the challenge behind her words. There’s truth there. It gnaws at me because it feels uncomfortable yet liberating.

“Why does it matter?” I grumble, masking the flicker of vulnerability creeping into my thoughts.

“It matters because every time you dismiss yourself, every time you say you’re not deserving of love or connection—it keeps you trapped in a cycle of self-doubt and self-loathing,” she replies steadily.

Doubt clings to me like smoke, suffocating and relentless. But somewhere beneath it all, a glimmer fights for breath—a notion that maybe accepting myself doesn’t mean turning into someone else but instead, recognizing what I’ve endured and grown from.

“What if … what if it’s not just about Eve?” The words slip out before I can stop them, exposing a truth I’ve buried deep down—it’s not merely her career standing between us, though that’s a major obstacle. It’s how I’ve convinced myself I’m unworthy of being loved by someone like her.

Dr. Stone nods slowly, encouraging me to explore this path further.

I take a shaky breath, that fragile thread beginning to unravel.

What if my issues with acceptance run deeper than I realized?

What if she sees the real me, hidden behind layers and layers of armor, and doesn’t like the man beneath it all?

I’d rather push her away than discover that truth.

Chapter 3

Undercover Conflicts

Evelyn

Isit at my desk, staring at the case files scattered before me like pieces of a puzzle I can’t solve. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, but all I can think about is Zeke. It’s been a week since I saw him at the club, and the memory of his piercing dark eyes still hit me like a punch to the gut. That moment in the back room, his expression shifting from shock to lust, then apathy, leaves me raw and exposed.

“Get it together, Eve,” I mutter under my breath. I tap my pen against the desk. It’s a futile attempt to distract myself from the whirlwind inside my head. I need to forget about him.

But I can’t.