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But she wasn’t. Her shoulders pulled up toward her ears, trying to make her tall frame smaller. Her free hand had found her opposite elbow, half a self-hug she probably didn’t realize she was giving herself. The careful space she maintained between all of us mapped the exact dimensions of her fear.

“This is a precaution,” Catherine said. “Just until we’re sure?—”

“Fine.” Defeat flattened the word. “Whatever makes you feel better.”

“Lauren—” Richard held out an upturned hand.

“I said fine.” She finally looked at me, and the blankness in her eyes sucked the air out of my lungs.

It was like there was nothing there. No anger, no hurt, no recognition of what we’d been to each other. Just empty appraisal, like I was furniture that needed arranging. “You can do whatever security assessment you need. I’ll be in my apartment.”

She turned on her heel, leaving silence in her wake.

“Give her a moment,” Richard advised as I stood. “She needs time to adjust to changes.”

He said that like her whole world hadn’t already been turned inside out. Like she hadn’t watched a man die for the crime of being her patient. Like she hadn’t been hunted through the jungle by psychopaths.

Like I hadn’t abandoned her when she’d needed me most.

“I’ll go with her,” I said. “Start the security evaluation.”

“Of course.” Richard’s eyes held warning. “I don’t know what happened between you two in Corazón. But my daughter’s been through enough. Don’t make this harder than necessary.”

Too late for that. I’d already made everything harder by leaving. By thinking absence was kindness, when all I’d done was confirm her worst fears about herself.

I found my own way out, taking the elevator down twelve floors in silence. Her door stood slightly ajar when I arrived. I knocked anyway.

“It’s unlocked.” Her voice carried from somewhere deeper in the apartment.

I stepped inside and stopped. This space felt different from her parents’ museum piece. Still expensive, still pristine, but…hollow. No personal touches. No photographs. No medical journals scattered around. Like she was camping in someone else’s life.

“I need to do a walk-through,” I called out. “Check windows, locks, sight lines.”

“Go ahead.”

I followed her voice to the living room, where floor-to-ceiling windows showcased Chicago’s skyline. She stood with her back to me, arms wrapped around herself, studying the city like it might provide answers.

“Lauren—”

“Don’t.” She didn’t turn. “Whatever you’re about to say, just don’t.”

“I owe you an apology.”

“No, you don’t.” Now she faced me, but her eyes fixed on a point past my shoulder. “I’m a big girl, Logan. I know not every hookup is meant for romance and permanence.”

Hookup. The word hit like shrapnel.

“That’s not what?—”

“We let hormones and adrenaline get the better of us.” Her hand cut through the air, slicing away meaning. “It happens. Extreme situations, close quarters, shared danger. Trauma bonding. Classic recipe for inappropriate attachment.”

Inappropriate attachment. Like what we’d shared could be reduced to a paragraph in some psychology textbook.

“Lauren—”

“I need to change clothes.” She moved past me, body angled to avoid even accidental contact. “Do whatever you need to do. Primary bedroom’s down the hall, guest room’s the first door on the right. Kitchen, obviously. Half bath by the entrance.”

She vanished down the hallway. A door closed. The lock engaged with finality.

I stood in her sterile living room, looking out at the city that trapped her as surely as any jungle. Two months ago, I’d convinced myself that leaving was protection. That she’d be better off without my damage, my violence, my broken pieces.

But this—this careful woman in designer armor, living in a fortress of glass and loneliness—this wasn’t better. This was what happened when you abandoned someone who’d already been told they were too much. Too tall, too strong, too independent.

Too everything, except what mattered.

I made myself work. Windows first—reinforced glass, good. But the latches needed upgrading, and anyone with rappelling gear could access from above. The front door had decent locks but no reinforced frame. A determined intruder could breach it in seconds.

The guest room was hotel-sterile. The kitchen looked barely used—one mug in the sink. Everything spoke of someone existing rather than living, going through motions that had lost their meaning.

I saved the primary bedroom for last, standing outside the closed door. “I need to check your windows.”

“Give me a minute.”

Drawers opened and closed quickly. When she finally emerged, she’d changed into jeans and a sweater. Still designer, still armor, but closer to the woman I remembered.

“Make it quick,” she said, stepping aside.

The bedroom was the only room that felt inhabited. Books stacked on the nightstand—medical journals mixed with escapist fiction. A Johns Hopkins hoodie thrown over a chair. On the dresser, a single photo: her with Elena, both grinning at the camera.

“That needs upgrading.” I pointed to the window latch, keeping my voice neutral. “Basic pin tumbler. I could get through it in thirty seconds.”

“Good thing you’re not trying to break in, then.”

“Lauren—”

“How long will this take? The whole security thing?”

“Few hours today. I’ll need to order equipment, arrange installation. Maybe a few days total.”

She moved to the doorway, creating a barrier with her body. “I have case files to review.”

I wanted to cross that space. Explain that every mile I’d run had just been geography. That seeing her like this—diminished, afraid, alone—was killing me in ways no bullet ever could.

But I’d lost the right to proximity the morning I’d chosen distance.

“I’ll be thorough,” I said instead. “Won’t take longer than necessary.”

She nodded and left. Her bedroom door closed again, another lock engaging. Message received.

I spent the next two hours cataloging vulnerabilities, making lists, planning improvements. But my mind kept circling back to that security footage. Someone had put hands on her. Made her feel helpless again when she’d just started to believe in safety.

The same promise I’d made in the jungle echoed through me: I’ll keep you safe.

I’d failed that promise once by leaving. I wouldn’t fail it again.

My phone buzzed. Text from Jace:

Status?

On site. Multiple security gaps. Will need full upgrade package.

And Lauren?

I stared at the blinking cursor, searching for words. The brilliant, vibrant woman I’d known, reduced to careful motions in a glass cage.

Finally, I typed:

Different. Not good.

Give her time. She’s been through a lot.

I’d already cost her two months. Two months of silence that had let her believe she’d been nothing more than convenient comfort in a crisis. But what choice did I have but to give her more time? Scream through the door?

When I finished my assessment, I found her at the dining room table, surrounded by files. She looked up as I approached, expression carefully blank.

“Get what you need?”

“I’ll have a full report tomorrow. Installation can start whenever you’re ready.”

“The sooner, the better.” She closed the file she’d been reading. “My parents will want this handled quickly.”

“What do you want?”

Surprise flickered across her features—quick as a blink—that anyone was asking her preference.

“I want to stop jumping at shadows,” she said quietly. “I want to stop checking my rearview mirror twenty times on the way home. I want…”

She shook her head, thought abandoned.

“What?” I pressed. “What do you want?”

“Doesn’t matter.” She stood, gathering her files. “I’ll be at the hospital tomorrow until six. You can coordinate with building maintenance for access.”

“Lauren—”

“Thank you for doing this.” Formal words, formal tone. “I’m sure your security recommendations will be thorough.”

She was dismissing me. Professional courtesy, nothing more. With anybody else, I’d welcome it. Not wanting to talk, not wanting to be my friend, not wanting anything from me except the job I’d been hired to do.

I headed for the door, then stopped. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. About the mugging. About…everything.”

“Like I said, you don’t owe me an apology.” She studied her files instead of me. “Sometimes things just don’t work out. That’s life.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow to escort you to work.”

I left because staying would mean saying things she wasn’t ready to hear. Things I wasn’t sure I had the right to say anymore.

But as the elevator descended, one certainty crystallized—I was exactly where I needed to be. For the first time in two months, the constant noise in my head had quieted. No more calculating distances to the next deployment. No more running from the memory of her skin beneath my hands.

Just this simple fact: Lauren needed protection, and I’d be the one to provide it.

Everything else—the apologies, the explanations, the desperate need to fix what I’d broken—would have to wait. She wasn’t ready. Hell, maybe she’d never be ready.

It didn’t matter. I’d take whatever she was willing to give, even if that was nothing more than professional tolerance. Because the alternative—letting anyone else stand between her and danger—was unacceptable.

For now, being near her was enough. Making sure she was safe was enough.

Even if she never forgave me. Even if this careful dance was all we’d ever have.

I was done running. Whatever came next, I’d face it here, where I should have been all along.